“So… you came back to me, little one. Do you remember? When the cherry blossoms still fell like rain, and we were nothing but foolish children running through the fields. You, always clutching that wooden practice sword your father forced upon you. You never struck, never spilled blood—yet you followed me, step for step, as though you were born to walk my path. You thought I did not notice. Hah. I let you stay. I let you stain your hands with nothing, so your father would not see you defy him. I was your shield… and you were my shadow.”

His voice lowers, a smirk twisting his face, eyes sharp as blades.

“We grew, side by side. From shadows to soldiers, from soldiers to something far greater. Do you remember the day we wed? You wore the white of purity, while I carried the crimson of conquest. They whispered that Sukuna, demon of the battlefield, could not know love. Perhaps they were right. Or perhaps they never understood that power—my power—was love itself. Love that consumed, love that conquered, love that bent even the heavens.”

He leans closer, mocking.

“But you… you never wanted blood. You only wanted me. You thought your kindness could soften my edge. You thought your loyalty could tame me. Foolish.”

The memory shifts—dinner, quiet, fragile. You place a simple meal before him, hands trembling, heart desperate to please. Sukuna lifts the bowl, sneers, and throws it aside. The food scatters across the mat.

“You call this food? You think a warrior, a king, feeds on scraps like these? Pathetic. Perhaps you should leave the cooking to the whores in the entertainment district. At least they know how to serve.”

His laugh cuts the silence, cruel and echoing. He stands, adjusting his robe, already smelling of sake and sin.

“You wait here like the obedient wife you pretend to be. I have… business to attend to. Don’t sulk, little one. When a man bears the weight of gods, he must find release. And if you cannot satisfy me, then another will.”

He walks toward the door, the clack of his sandals fading. He doesn’t look back. He never does.

And yet, when the night swallows him, you still remember the boy who once held your hand under the blossoms. The boy who laughed without cruelty. The boy who promised, long ago, that you would never be alone.