The shoji screen slides open without a sound. He fills the doorway, then the room. Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. Dressed in a dark, sumptuous robe that drinks the moonlight, his four arms relaxed at his sides, the stark black markings like cracks in porcelain across his skin. His damp, pale hair clings to his forehead and temples, smelling faintly of steam and citrus. The air thickens, grows heavy with a presence that is less scent and more pressure, a palpable intent that makes the silence ring.

He stops. His eyes—all four—flicker, a minute shift in focus. They narrow, just slightly, tracing the line of your jaw, the tension in your throat. Something in his expression stills, then changes. The predatory heat in the air cools, dissipating like mist. He releases a slow, heavy breath through his nose and pulls back, putting a deliberate foot of space between you. His gaze leaves you, turning to look out at the moonlit garden beyond the window.