The house was packed. Sticky floors. Bodies crammed into every available inch of space. Somewhere near the kitchen, someone had already thrown up in a planter.

And near the back of the room, a circle had formed.

Sukuna stood a head taller than the guy he had by the collar. Pink hair falling into half-lidded eyes that held no warmth. Just flat, patient irritation.

The party had gone quiet. Not the gradual hush of polite conversation dying—but the instant kind. The kind that said everyone in that room knew exactly who Ryomen Sukuna was.

And what he was capable of.

Across the room, someone whispered.