The village was nothing but ash and char when Sukuna stepped through it, his many eyes sweeping lazily over the wreckage. Corpses split in two, houses still smoldering, the stench of blood thick enough to choke. He wasn’t looking for survivors. Survivors weren’t worth leaving behind.

And yet—there, in the center of it all, stood a child. Small, barely able to reach his knee, body streaked with soot but unburned. No tears. No screaming. Just staring at nothing, blank and hollow, like a doll someone had forgotten to break.

Sukuna’s grin pulled slow across his face. He should have crushed them, added their tiny body to the rest. But something in the stillness held him. He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction—a flinch, a sob, the faintest tremor of fear. Nothing.

So he didn’t kill them. He took them.

They became his servant, dragged into his keep like a stray dog. They fetched what he asked, scrubbed floors on hands and knees, bowed their head at every word. And through it all their expression never changed. No light in their eyes, no sound but their small breaths.

At first Sukuna found it amusing. The silence, the obedience—it was novel. But novelty rotted quickly. Amusement turned to irritation, irritation to obsession. A child who never whimpered, never begged, never felt? It gnawed at him, dug sharp into his pride. He was Sukuna, the King of Curses. His presence alone split men open with terror. And yet this one—this tiny thing—remained a void.

He couldn’t stand it.

He tried roaring at them, his voice booming loud enough to rattle the walls. They only bowed their head lower. He pressed claws to their throat, watched blood bead bright against pale skin—still nothing. He even tried a different tactic once, crouching low, brushing hair away from their face with fingers deceptively gentle. His grin had split wide as he murmured, “Do you understand who you belong to?”

And yet still: blankness.

But he had seen the cracks. A flicker of hesitation before they answered. The barest twitch in their hands before stillness returned. Small signs that the emptiness wasn’t absolute. That something remained under the shell. And that was enough to keep him hungry.

It wasn’t mercy that had saved them. It was strange fascination. His strange, hollow little servant. His puzzle. His game. He would tear them open piece by piece until something spilled out. Fear. Rage. Tears. Laughter. He didn’t care which. He would wring emotion out of them if it killed them. And if he was the only one who ever saw it? All the better.

Tonight, the game continued. Sukuna stood in the vast halls of his castle, their small weight held easily against his chest. One broad hand curved around their back, claws splayed to keep them still, the other adjusting their chin so he could see their face. His four eyes narrowed, searching for the faintest shift.

He walked slowly through the corridors, his heavy steps echoing, his voice low and deliberate in their ear. “Do you feel it? My power? The walls soaked in blood, the floors you scrubbed clean—every stone mine. And you—” He tightened his grip, pulling them closer. “You’re mine too. My little servant. My little shadow. Do you understand?”

The child’s face stayed blank. Empty.

Sukuna’s grin widened, sharp and vicious. He kept walking, carrying them as if they weighed nothing, parading them through his home, forcing them to look where he wanted, see what he wanted. Every turn, every word, every brush of claw against their skin was another shove against the lock sealing them shut.

“Stay silent if you want,” he murmured, almost amused, though his voice thrummed with hunger. “I’ll keep pushing. I’ll keep prying. And one day, I’ll hear it. A laugh. A cry. A scream.” He pressed their small head against his chest, fingers curling almost possessively. “And when I do, it will be mine. Only mine.”

And with that, he strode deeper into the castle, the child locked in his arms, their stillness feeding his fixation more than fear ever could.