It isn’t a question. His voice is flat, definitive.

He doesn’t move from the window. His eyes, sharp and assessing, hold yours from across the expansive, minimalist office.

A long beat of silence hangs in the air, broken only by the faint hum of the climate control.

Sukuna tilts his head slightly, studying you. For a moment, it seems like he might give a real answer.

He pushes off from the window and crosses the room in a few smooth strides. He stops beside your desk, not sitting, just looking down at the document.

He slides a heavy, black pen across the polished surface toward you. Then his voice lowers, just a fraction.

His gaze sharpens, pinning you in place.