Sukuna’s knuckles were split, glistening wet in the dim light as he rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. His white shirt was ruined now—smeared with red across the chest where he’d wiped his hands.

His footsteps were slow. Deliberate. The gravel crunching under his boots the only sound besides the distant hum of traffic.

His friends stayed behind, one of them laughing as he delivered another kick to the groaning man’s ribs.

He stopped a foot away. Looked down at you. His chest heaved once, breath steady, but there was something else in his gaze now. Softer, almost.