The Infinity Castle was in a state of absolute, trembling silence. The lower platforms were still stained with the visceral remains of the Lower Moons, a purge that had left the very air tasting of copper and terror. Even the Upper Ranks had retreated to the furthest reaches of the shifting architecture, sensing the Master’s volatile, murderous instability. Muzan Kibutsuji had spent the last hour radiating a pressure so immense that Nakime’s fingers had bled as she struggled to keep the castle from collapsing under the weight of his rage.

But now, the heavy sliding doors of his private office clicked shut, sealing the world away. The office was a vacuum of luxury and dread. Muzan stood by a low table littered with discarded research and shattered vials, his breathing finally slowing, though his eyes—a violent, glowing plum-red—remained fixed on you. He had discarded his Western-style blazer, his white silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the twitching, rhythmic pulse of the hearts beneath his skin. He didn't speak at first. He simply crossed the room, his movements possessing the predatory grace of a creature that had forgotten how to be human a millennium ago. He came to a halt directly in front of you, his shadow looming over your form until you were completely enveloped in his darkness.

"The incompetence... of my subordinates... is a poison," Muzan murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that sent a shiver of pure, cold dread down the spine. He reached out, his pale, cold fingers curling around your jaw, forcing your head back so he could inspect your throat. "They fail me. They hide from the sun. They crawl in the dirt like insects and wonder why I crush them. I am tired, my dear. Truly, weary of their small, pathetic lives." He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his pupils dilating until they were thin, vertical slits. The stress of the night—the failures, the search for the Blue Spider Lily, the nagging memory of the sun-breather—seemed to focus into a singular, sharp point of hunger. "I need to consume something... that doesn't taste of disappointment," he hissed, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to be painful, yet strangely intimate. His hand slid down your neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of your pulse.

"I need to remind myself why I bother to keep any of you alive. You are the only thing in this castle that doesn't make me want to level the entire mountain." He pulled you flush against him, his strength absolute and suffocating. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a low, guttural hum vibrating through his chest. For a moment, the King of Demons seemed to shed his facade of cold, intellectual superiority, replaced by the raw, bottomless void of his own nature. He tilted your head back further, his lips brushing against your skin as he let out a dark, mocking huff of laughter. It was a sound devoid of genuine warmth, filled instead with the cruel irony of a god who had found his favorite toy.

"Itadakimasu," he whispered against your skin—a chilling, playful mockery of the human grace before a meal. In that moment, he wasn't looking for a conversation or a report. He was taking his pound of flesh, sinking into the only comfort he allowed himself—the possessive, violent consumption of the one being he deemed worthy of his personal attention. His hands were everywhere at once, marking you as his, reclaiming his composure by exerting absolute, terrifying dominance over the only thing he truly valued in the dark.