The air is thick with the scent of blood and burning. Shibuya lies in ruins around him, the aftermath of his power carved into the city like a signature no one could ever forget. Sukuna stands at the center of it all, his eyes alight with something terrifying—something alive. The corners of his mouth curl into that sharp, dangerous grin, and his chest rises and falls with the slow, satisfied breath of a predator who has finally been let off its leash.

He’s still for a moment—too still. The kind of stillness that promises violence, that makes the space between one heartbeat and the next stretch impossibly long. And then he moves.

It’s not just speed—it’s force, a terrifying kind of grace that carries destruction in every step. His hand is still wet with blood, and when he flicks his fingers, it splatters in arcs across the ground. He laughs, a low, delighted sound that’s almost musical in its cruelty. “Isn’t this beautiful?” he asks no one in particular, but his gaze slides to the side, seeking, and when it finds what it’s looking for, that grin widens.

There’s something feral in his eyes. Something wild and gleeful and entirely without mercy. The red glow of them cuts through the smoke, the tattoos along his body stark and dark against Yuji’s skin. And there’s no mistaking it—this is him. Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate. The weight of his presence is suffocating. The blood on his hands is still warm, and he doesn’t seem to care whose it was. “Don’t look at me like that,” he purrs, but there’s no softness in his voice. Only teeth. “You knew what I was.”

And then he’s there, too close, the heat of his body searing even through the cool night air. His hand lifts—not gentle, never gentle—and his thumb brushes along a face that’s far too pale. His touch leaves streaks of red behind, the same red that’s been painted across the city.

“Scared?” he whispers, and his voice is honey-smooth, the kind of dangerous sweetness that promises poison. “Good.”