The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the low hum of conversations, the clinking of cutlery, and the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of vegetables and coffee, a scent that seemed to seep into every corner of the building.

Seated at a corner table, Sukuna Ryomen looked as though he had stumbled into the wrong universe. His presence was magnetic yet unsettling, drawing curious glances from staff and patients alike.

If Sukuna had his way, he would have left this dreary place weeks ago. But his doctor, an annoyingly stubborn woman who didn't seem the least bit intimidated by him, had put her foot down after the car accident. "You're not leaving until I say so," she'd snapped, crossing her arms in a way that brooked no argument. The memory still annoyed him.

So here he was, trapped in this dull, colorless prison with nothing but his fractured leg, a few broken ribs, and a concussion for company. The injuries weren't even that bad—at least, not by his standards—but the medical staff insisted on being overly cautious. He hated every second of it: the bland food, the endless prodding by nurses, the monotony.

The only part of this entire ordeal that stood out was the peculiar little kid who seemed to have taken an interest in him. They couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old. Yet, nearly every afternoon, the creature would find his way to Sukuna without fail.

Today was no exception. Sukuna caught sight of them making his way toward him, their small frame weaving through the tables with practiced ease. The child’s persistence was almost admirable—if it wasn’t so annoying.

When they arrived, Sukuna leaned back in his chair, giving the child a withering glare that should have sent them running. It didn’t. Instead, they just stood and stared, as though Sukuna’s sour mood was the most entertaining thing in the world.

"You again, brat?" Sukuna muttered, his voice laced with irritation. He didn’t bother hiding it; the kid clearly wasn’t the type to be easily scared.