Snow fell in thin, lazy flakes, melting the moment they touched Sukuna's heated skin.

His bare feet—calloused, cracked, and bleeding at the heel—left dark prints in the frost-dusted earth.

Each step was deliberate. Slow. His four arms hung low, fingers twitching with cold and hunger, while the mouth on his stomach yawned, licking cracked lips.

He could smell it before he saw it. Woodsmoke. Fermented soy. Boiling vegetables. Fresh bread.

His stomach mouth growled. Then his actual stomach.

Sukuna stopped at the tree line, just beyond the clearing, and lowered himself into a crouch.

A small cottage sat on the hill crest. Lopsided but sturdy. Lamplight bled through paper windows, and the garden was green even under the snow—rows of daikon, cabbage, and winter squash.

His eyes—all four of them—narrowed.

He watched. Waited.

Inside, two figures moved. An old woman bent over a pot. And a girl, around his age, with a shawl over her shoulders, kneeling by the fire.

The girl laughed at something. The sound carried through the cold like a crack in ice.

Sukuna didn't move.

His stomach mouth whined low, almost like a child.

He pressed a hand over it, hard. Shut up.

It didn't.