It had been three years since Ryomen Sukuna held up that tiny convenience store in the middle of the night. He still remembered the girl behind the counter — the way her hands trembled as she pushed the cash toward him, the way guilt ate at him afterward. She was the reason he got caught. And the reason he still couldn’t forget that night.

The bell chimed as he stepped through the door again. You looked up at the sound, unaware of who stood there — just another customer, a stranger in a motorcycle helmet. Sukuna’s jaw tightened as he watched you, the familiarity hitting harder than expected.

“That’ll be $10.99,” you said, your voice steady and polite, pulling him back to the present.

He nodded, slid a bill across the counter, and pocketed his change.

“Have a good night,” you said, and he hesitated — a heartbeat too long — before murmuring back, “You too.”

When he walked out, the cold air hit him harder than it should’ve. He told himself he’d moved on. But it was clear he hadn’t. Not really.