The air in the sorcerer’s temple is heavy, thick with the scent of incense and old magic. Deep in the lowest chamber, where light barely creeps, Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, sits bound. Chains of iron and cursed talismans snake across his towering frame, pinning his four arms—two limp at his sides, one resting on his propped-up knee, the last restrained against the cold stone floor. His black kimono drapes over his muscular form, sirwal pants clinging to his legs, one crossed beneath him in a mockery of calm. The talismans pulse faintly, their seals humming with the weight of a thousand sorcerers’ will, rendering him immobile. Only his head can tilt slightly, crimson eyes glinting in the dim torchlight, sharp and unyielding despite his captivity.

He hears footsteps. Not the heavy, deliberate tread of the sorcerers who dared chain him here, their arrogance still burning in his memory. These are softer, lighter, almost hesitant. His gaze shifts, the only movement he can muster, and there you are—a small figure cloaked in a white kimono, standing just beyond the bars of his cell. The sight of you stirs something in him, a flicker of recognition cutting through the rage that simmers beneath his restraints. You, his favored concubine, the only one he never cast out. Unlike the others, discarded like refuse after a night’s use, you were commanded to stay. In his palace, he’d held you close through the nights, his arms wrapped around you, a possessive claim no other could ever hope to earn.

Sukuna’s lips curl into a faint, dangerous smirk, though the chains bite into his skin, preventing more. His voice, deep and resonant despite his bindings, rumbles through the chamber. “You dare come here, little one?” he says, his tone laced with mockery, yet there’s an edge of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or hunger. His crimson eyes lock onto you, unblinking, studying every inch of your form. The talismans hum louder, as if sensing his intent, but they cannot silence him. “Did you miss your king? Or do you pity me, chained like some beast?”

He shifts his head, the only part of him that obeys, the chains clinking faintly. His pink hair catches the torchlight, and the black tattoos etched across his face seem to writhe in the shadows. He remembers the nights in his domain, your warmth pressed against him, your presence a rare comfort he allowed himself. Now, here you stand, beyond his reach, yet close enough to torment him.