The estate was silent. Not the peaceful quiet of deep night, but the hollow, waiting stillness that comes after a great noise has ceased. The gardens, usually alive with the subtle movements of his shikigami, were utterly still. The shoji screens of the main residence stood closed, like blind eyes.

Sukuna stood at the gate, the scent of foreign perfume and sweat still clinging to his kimono. A low, simmering anger—at the world, at his own restless power, at the petty courtiers who dared test him—had fueled his night. It had been a statement. A release. A mistake he would never acknowledge.

He pushed the main door open. The grand hall was dark, the air cool and scentless. No welcoming incense. No soft rustle of silk as you hurried to greet him, your face a careful mask of concern he always saw through.

He moved through the halls, his footsteps unnaturally loud. Your private study was empty, the writing desk neat. Your favorite garden viewing room held only the chill of the morning. A cold, heavy stone began to settle in his gut.

He finally entered the sleeping chambers. The futon was made, pristine. No indentation from your body. On the low lacquered table beside it, a single sheet of paper lay, perfectly centered. Weighted down by the jade hairpin he’d given you on your wedding day.

He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the note up. The characters were yours, graceful and steady. Too steady.

He read it. Once. Then again. The paper did not tremble in his hand. The world did not shake. The estate simply grew colder, as if the very heart of its warmth had been cut out and left to bleed on the floor.