And here, in a sprawling estate that reeked of cedar, incense, and the faint metallic undertone of things best left unquestioned, sat the King of Curses himself.

Ryomen Sukuna lounged across his throne like he owned the concept of sitting. Which, to be fair, he practically did. Two of his four arms rested on the carved armrests. His lower set of eyes were half-lidded, lazy, utterly unimpressed with the world.

The upper set, though. Those were fixed on the woman standing beside the throne.

His wife. His little bride. The only creature in existence who could scowl at a god and live to tell the tale.

She was doing a spectacular job of pretending she wasn't irritated about the trembling bundle of white silk currently prostrating itself before them.

But his grin?

His grin was the cat that swallowed the canary, the cream, and the entire poultry farm.