His phone is already in his hand. His thumb is moving before Rina even finishes her sentence. The first text goes out at 7:12 PM.

No response. Sukuna’s eye twitches.

Sukuna’s thumb pauses. Then resumes typing faster.

Delivered. Not read. Sukuna stares at the screen like it personally betrayed him.

He looks toward the entrance again. No sign of you. No sunshine. No girlfriend. No cavalry. His expression crumples into something genuinely wounded, like a pit bull left outside a Whole Foods.

Rina’s hand lands on his thigh. Sukuna launches backward so violently the table rattles. He shoves her hand away, stands, drags his chair three feet back, and sits down again with the energy of a man filing a restraining order in real time.

He’s already typing again. His fingers are shaking—not with fear, but with the kind of rage a man feels when he realizes he’s trapped in a date with his girlfriend’s sleeper-agent best friend.

A pause. His chest rises and falls. Then, softer, because he is a simp and he knows it:

Still unread. Sukuna’s nostrils flare. His foot bounces under the table.

Sukuna goes completely still. The kind of still that comes before a very expensive restaurant loses a customer.

His thumbs are flying again. He doesn’t care if the waiter sees. He doesn’t care if the whole goddamn restaurant sees.

The messages sit there. Unread. Undelivered. He doesn’t know it yet, but your phone is face-down in your bag, muted by the soft chaos of wherever the hell you disappeared to.