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Supervisors said it wasn’t your jurisdiction, colleagues changed the subject when you brought him up. One informant called him a ghost, another, shaking, said nothing at all—just pressed a rosary into your hand and walked away.

You didn’t listen.

You couldn’t.

Instead, your fingers move to the worn leather journal filled with not evidence, nor analysis, but just fever-dream parables.

Confessions in metaphor, maybe.

Or perhaps the only honest way to understand him.

They told you you were making connections that weren’t there.

That no one else had seen the mouths—the missing tongues, the sewn lips, the scriptures shoved down throats.

But that wasn’t true; they had seen. They just looked away.

Because to see it meant acknowledging something too dangerous to name.

Your supervisor called it creative burnout, the department shrink said dissociation under prolonged stress.

She upped your dosage—Risperdal to slow your thoughts, Zoloft to silence them.

To muffle the voice that told you something was crawling just beneath the surface of the world. That Sukuna was more than a man.

So, you stopped taking them.

You eye the bottles now, sitting politely in their labeled containers, in the yellow plastic so harsh and lurid it feels like they’re taunting you.

Grabbing them, you twist the caps open and drop them, one by one, into the sepia-toned ink jar crusted at the edges.

They vanish with quiet plops.

Milky streaks unfurl like underwater ghosts.

You stir the surface with a matchstick.

Then pick up your pen, and dip it in.

Because they didn’t miss the patterns, they chose not to seem them.

Because seeing them means pulling at something you can’t put back, means whispering his name into the dark and knowing he might answer.

Silence.

That’s what he punished.

Or worshipped.

You can’t tell.

And as you write the title, your fingers graze the hem of your tank top—worn thin from too many nights spent here. No pants. No plan. No real sleep.

You tell yourself it’s for comfort.

But some part of you knows the truth.

You aren’t just watching him—you’re inviting him to watch you back.

You’re no longer chained.

But the room is worse.

It’s too elegant—like someone had tried to decorate guilt.

Silken curtains, warm lamplight, a massive four-poster bed you refuse to sleep in. Walls with paneling that dances in the corners of your eyes, only pretending to behave when you look straight at them.

Sukuna lounges in a chair, legs spread, your notebook balanced across his knee. Your old, frenzied handwriting scrawled across every page.

Parables. Notes. Obsessions.

“Tell me,” he says without looking up, “when exactly did you stop writing about the victims and start writing about me?”

You sit still on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his white dress shirts.

No underwear. No bra.

He made you burn your own clothes.

“I don’t remember,” you lie.

He flips a page, smiles and reads aloud,

'He is not a man, but a myth wearing a corpse. I dreamt his eye in the mirror. I dreamt his hands in my mouth.'

“Poetic,” he muses, “for someone who called me a parasite in the report you tried to submit to the task force.” He closes the notebook with a snap. “Get up.”

You hesitate.

“I said—get. Up.”

You do, feet bare on plush carpet. The air in the room feels thicker suddenly.

“Walk to the mirror.”

There’s a full-length one across the room, gilded in gold. You approach it slowly, an idea already forming in the pit of your stomach about what’s coming.

“You want to know the part I liked most?” Sukuna says, flipping through your notebook with slow, deliberate fingers, like he’s peeling something alive.

You don’t answer, but your pulse flinches.

He finds the page and taps it. “The Parable of the Orchard of Tongues.” A smile plays on his lips, dark and knowing. “That one was… revealing.”

You try not to react. But then he tilts his head slightly and he says,

“I remember what you were wearing when you wrote it.”

Your stomach drops.

He stands and moves to a drawer. Not yours—his.

And opens it without ceremony to pull out something soft and familiar.

A small black tank top. Worn thin from use.

Your breath catches when he sets it on the chaise beside you. Then a pair of cotton underwear—gray, faded. No pants.

You stare at them. Then at him.

“You kept my clothes,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I kept you."

That should disgust you. But it doesn’t, not entirely at least, not with the way he says it.

“Put them on.”

You hesitate.

Sukuna leans in, voice low. “Or I’ll dress you myself.”

Something akin to shame burns hot in your chest but you reach for the fabric with shaking fingers.

His gaze sharpens, flicking down as you peel your shirt from your body—slowly, hesitantly. Your bra falls next. And then you slip the familiar tank top on, threadbare and barely covering anything, the cotton molding to your tits, nipples pressing clear against the fabric.

The room feels colder now. Or maybe you just feel seen.

You pause again, eyeing the panties—your panties—before nervously peeking at him again. He doesn’t need to speak words, the intensity with which his hawk-eyed stare bores into you says enough.

But…you suppose you should at least try and preserve what little sliver of your modesty you have left.

You clear your throat before quietly asking, “Can I…get some pri—”

He laughs—if the sound can be called that. No mirth, just a chilling callousness.

“Privacy?” he murmurs, voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating. “That’s cute. Real fucking cute.”

And if it’s even possible, his eye sharpens further, honing in on you with a look that can only be described as…predatory.

“You forget where you are.” The pause that follow is thick, dangerous. “You forget who owns you now.”

A clawed hand curls against his knee, as he leans forward in a slow, dreadful shift. The air in your lungs is too thick to breathe as you force yourself to stand in place while his shadow crawls up your legs like cold water.

“Change. Now.” His voice drops to something that feels like a razor blade pressed to your skin. “Or pray that I stay in a gentle mood.”

His eye glints with something dark.

So you change.

No pants, just the top. Like before.

Once you’re dressed, he gestures toward the notebook again. “Now read it.”

You sit on the edge of the chaise, feeling small and exposed, your voice shaky.

“Start from the beginning,” he murmurs. “Make it real for me.”

When you opens the book, your hands tremble.

And when you start reading, your voice does too.

“There was once a girl who could not speak…”

Sukuna’s mouth curls, gaze locked firmly on your thighs.

“—not because she lacked a voice, but because she had seen what happened to those who used theirs.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, hands trembling as they hold the notebook.

You’re painfully aware of the thin tank top clinging to your chest, the way the cotton rides up your thighs when you shift. Sukuna says nothing—but you can feel his presence like a stormcloud.

He moves beside you.

“They found a man once, with his tongue nailed to his own chest like a warning. A dealer. Another girl was missing hers entirely. Runaways. Informants.”

The chaise dips beside you from his weight as he sits, close enough for you to pick up his scent. Close enough that the heat of his breath brushes your shoulder.

“The girl wrote it all down in her notebooks—what was left of their names, what little they’d managed to say before.”

You fight the urge to look up into the mirror, but his reflection looms in it anyway as his hands slide down your bare arms. Lightly, just fingertips grazing skin. He’s not holding you, yet you can’t move.

“’He feeds on silence,’ someone whispered to her once. ‘That’s how he stays alive.’” you say, but your voice catches slightly.

One hand slips to your thigh. Slowly, maddeningly, he drags the hem of the shirt higher—until your underwear is visible, then exposed. He’s not even looking at the notebook now, just at you.

“And so the girl stopped talking,” you continue, but it’s harder now. Harder to stay present. His thumb strokes a slow, absent-minded circle against the inside of your thigh like he's testing pressure points on an animal.

“She learned how to smile without speaking. To weep without a sound, to bleed discretely.”

He leans closer, lips just at the shell of your ear. “I wonder what kind of girl bites her tongue and still finds ways to scream.”

Your whole body jolts when his hand moves up, cupping the heat between your legs through the thin cotton. He doesn’t press, not yet—just lets it rest there, warm and heavy.

You keep reading.

“Years passed, each story she couldn’t tell weighing down on her from inside, pressing against her chest like a second ribcage.”

A sharp inhale escapes you when his fingers flex—just slightly, just enough to remind you he’s there.

“…With it festered the rage, the horror, the delight and awe of everything she’d seen, gestating within her. So one night, barefoot and wild-eyed, the girl wandered into the forest with dirt beneath her nails and rage in her throat, a knife held tightly in one ink-smeared hand.”

You resist the urge to pause when you feel him pulling away from you, standing up from the chaise.

“There, beneath the oldest tree she could find, she dug a hole with her bare hands.”

Your voice wavers Sukuna crouches before you slowly—almost lazily—like a man settling down to study a piece of art. His hands rest lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing over the faintest lines of your pelvic bones beneath the soft hem of the tank top.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches.

“She raised the knife and cut a line beneath her tongue, slicing across that thin membrane-like stretch of flesh that connected it to the floor of her mouth.”

Then his thumbs hook into the waistband of your underwear—not pulling, not yet—but just anchoring there. A quiet threat, a promise of a direction that has you involuntarily pressing your thighs together.

“And into that hole, she buried the blood that dripped and flowed like hot wine.”

The proximity, the way he’s positioning himself between your legs, head tilted slightly upward, gaze fixed not on your face, but higher—under the thin fabric, beneath the trembling skin.

Despite how you consciously ignore him, your body can’t, and soon the gusset of your panties grows damp.

“Keep going,” he murmurs.

He parts your thighs with subtle pressure, not forceful but firm, making space for himself.

You clutch the journal tighter, knees shaking a bit, but you continue, “She covered it with earth. And waited.”

Until he presses his broad nose right to your clothed cunt, and breathes in deeply.

“S-Seasons changed…” you read, though the words falter now. “The…The soil shifted.”

Sukuna lowers his mouth just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against the inside of your thigh. There, he presses a single, cool kiss to the soft, warm flesh.

The words come unevenly as you gasp slightly. “From that…buried flesh, trees began to grow.”

Your thighs tense under his palms as his breath ghosts higher, just brushing the thin fabric of the underwear he’d made you change into—his souvenir from your obsession.

You’re burning all over, trembling, clit throbbing, but you keep reading.

“Not ordinary trees—these were twisted, knotted things, heavy…with strange fruit—” ,you pause, “—Tongues.”

He doesn’t do anything yet, but his voice cuts low across your skin.

“If you make a sound,” he says, tilting his head so his mouth is nearly against the inner seam of your thigh, “you start over. From the very beginning.”

Your throat tightens, especially as he kisses another kiss right at the crevice between your thigh and outer labia, too close to where the fabric ends. A kiss sucked between teeth that pinches just a little.

You nod—too quickly—and immediately regret it.

“Say it,” he murmurs, fingers now sliding up along the backs of your thighs as he turns his head, pressing another wet kiss to the inner part of your other thigh. “Out loud.”

“If I make a sound... I start over,” you whisper.

“Good girl.”

Then he leans in.

Not a kiss, not a bite...just the maddening brush of his tongue over the fabric—soft, slow, calculated. Testing.

You squeeze the journal so tightly the paper begins to crumple.

“Keep reading,” he reminds you, voice muffled but steady.

You try. You really try.

“Long and wet… they…they dangled in clusters…”

Then he presses harder, the wet heat of his tongue seeping through the already damp fabric, the tip of it pressing right up against your swollen clit.

“…pink and red and bruised purple, slick—”

He sucks at it through the fabric, and your breath stutters, voice breaking into a half-swallowed gasp.

He stops instantly.

And you feel him smile.

“Start over.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again—dry. Humiliation burns hot under your skin, but pride is louder, just for a moment. You want to disobey. Want to push back, make him wait.

You shouldn’t, but you do.

The silence stretches.

And you feel him still.

Not just in body—but in attention. He stops touching you, yet somehow, the lack of contact feels even more intimate. The air goes still between your legs, between your breaths.

Then, slowly, he shifts.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, you feel the warm exhale of his breath move across your skin as he lifts his head—not all the way, just enough to make you feel his eyes on you.

Watching.

Measuring.

Then his voice—low, thoughtful, almost gentle:

“…You’re hesitating.”

A statement, not a question—as if noting a change in weather.

You flinch.

And he chuckles softly. It’s not mocking—it’s worse than that; it’s pleased.

“I wondered how long your pride would last.”

His hand slides back up your thigh—not to tease, not to reward, but to remind. His palm presses flat against your inner leg, steady, firm.

“I like that part of you. The part that resists.”

You swallow.

“But here’s the problem,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping an octave. “Pride doesn’t keep you safe. It just makes the fall worse.”

He presses a kiss—soft, reverent—over the same spot he punished seconds ago.

Then he does nothing but wait.

The air between you vibrates with what he could do next.

But he won’t, not until you choose.

His mouth doesn’t move, but his hand does.

A shift in pressure. A slow, deliberate slide—just enough to make your breath catch again as his fingers toy with the edge of your soaked underwear, as if considering something…heavier.

"You want me to stop?" he murmurs, voice coiled like smoke. He’s no longer smiling.

He lifts his head just enough that you can see his expression—a terrifying calm.

“Say the word. Go on. Say it, and I’ll stop. I’ll walk away, and you’ll be left exactly where you were before—alone with your parables and your pills and your pretty little theories.”

You don’t speak—you can’t; your mouth is dry again. Something is coiling in your chest—rage, shame, arousal, fear. You’re not sure where one ends and the other begins anymore.

He leans in, tongue brushing the curve of your hipbone, almost thoughtful.

“I’m going to make you read every last word of that story,” he says, fingers curling now under the fabric at your hip, but not pulling—just holding, anchoring. “And I’m going to teach you exactly what it means.”

Your breath stutters.

Then he says it—soft, low, vicious, “You wrote this for me, didn’t you?”

A flush scorches your cheeks and your body goes rigid.

“I saw what you wore. I saw the way your thighs shifted when you thought no one was watching. You didn’t write this for justice. You didn’t even write it for yourself.”

His mouth trails closer again.

“You wrote it for the man you knew was watching you. Waiting.”

Then—finally—he moves.

He pulls your underwear down slowly, baring you completely to him.

“Start from the beginning,” he says. “And this time, if you make a sound…”

He drags a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel, teeth grazing skin.

“…you won’t just start over.”

He pauses, lips hovering just above where you’re pulsing and exposed.

“I’ll make you beg to.”

You swallow hard. The paper in your hand is trembling now, fingers crumpling the corner. You try to force your voice to steady.

“There was once a girl who could not speak…”

The words come thin, frail—like string about to snap. His hands haven’t moved, but his presence is heat and weight and breath between your legs.

“—not because she lacked a voice, but because she had seen what happened to those who used theirs.”

He exhales—warm and humid—right against your bare skin.

“They found a man once, with his tongue nailed to his own chest like a warning,” you recite, and your voice nearly breaks on warning.

Then his tongue moves—slow, deliberate, up the inside of your thigh, then over, just brushing the edge of where it matters. Not quite touching, but close enough to burn.

“A…A dealer. Another girl was missing hers entirely.”

His tongue slithers into your entrance, dipping into your heat with a soft, wet noise.

“Runaways. Informants. The girl wrote it all down in her notebooks—”

It pulls back out, dragging languidly over sensitive flesh till it pushes against your clit, finally giving pressure to you where your nerves have been screaming for it.

You flinch. Your knees try to close, but his hands tighten around your thighs, spreading you again, firm and unhurried.

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to.

Start over is implicit now. It looms unspoken in the space between you.

You exhale shakily, reset your grip on the page.

“There was once a girl who could not speak…”

This time, as you speak, he doesn’t wait. His tongue dips lower—hot, wet, maddeningly gentle—and licks a slow stripe through the center of you.

Your voice cracks, but you force it on.

“—not because she lacked a voice, but because she had seen—”

He presses a kiss directly against your clit. A real one, firm and searing.

You choke on the line, the words blur on the page.

And his mouth stills.

You blink, breathless, your body trembling in frustration and heat and shame.

“…Almost,” he murmurs softly against your damp folds.

“No, please—” you beg, barely audible.

“Start over.” His tone is without sympathy, but cruelly patient, like he has all the time in the world to make you start over again and again until you break.

There’s a beat.

Then he kisses your clit again, harder, till you whine in desperation, frustration.

Torture.

But you start again, the same words that have now been engraved into your memory.

“There was once a girl who could not speak…”

This time, you push through, through each flick of his tongue against your clit, every torturous drag of it swiping through your slick folds, even when he once closed his teeth around your clit ever so gently, and pressed down.

And you’d nearly ripped the page from how tightly you gripped it, but you pushed on till you’d finally gotten past the furthest point you made it before—the first time.

“Long and wet, they dangled in clusters, pink and red and bruised purple, slick with dew.” Some were small like a child’s. Others thick, cracked, and old.”

His wet lips seal around your trembling cunt, warm tongue lapping at you as he sucks your clit, popping it out, and sucking back in over and over. Your words get faster, higher.

“The orchard breathed. At night, the girl walked among the trees—naked, silent, listening.”

You feel his gaze on you as you read, as he swirls the tip of his tongue around the swollen nub before sucking again. Taking in the glossy shine of your eyes, at the tears that have already dried on your cheeks, at the rise and fall of your tits under the thin tank top.

“They whispered to her in the dark, twitching and moaning. Curses. Confessions. The last words of those who had disappeared.”

He pulls back just slightly. You don’t dare pause, nor look down to see what’s happening.

Just keep reading.

“She plucked them like blossoms and pressed them into her notebooks.”

Something wet drips onto your pussy. He’s spat on it.

A shiver skitters up your spine, and you stutter a bit. “S-Some she fed to men who made her promises.”

His slick lips press back onto your heat, tongue smearing saliva around with your juices to make a filthy mess. The tip of his tongue makes tight circles on your clit, before he drags it down to your entrance and back up to your clit.

“One, she burned and watched it scream.”

All you can feel is heat, wetness, pulsing in your clit.

“Then he came.”

Pressure that builds and builds as he sucks your clit again, tongue slipping over it within the vacuum.

“A man with fire in his palms and ash on his breath. He walked through her orchard like it already belonged to him, listened to the tongues.”

Your words come out more and more strained but you are determined to make it through this time, even when you hear the soft squelches of him working his mouth against you more insistently.

Hungrily.

“Touched them with his bare hands, caressed their slick surfaces.”

God, you’re going to cum, you can’t hold it off any longer.

“And when he looked at her, he said, ‘You shouldn’t have kept them alive.’”

So close—

“Th—en he set it all on fire.”

The words come unevenly, pitch something closer to a whine when you feel your orgasm hit you, lighting you up as your legs shake and tremble and strain against his grip.

But you keep reading, and he keeps licking your clit.

“She—She didn’t run. She watched the f-flames…lick the sky and said nothing.” It hurts now, your whole body twitches and jolts at the overstimulating touch as the tip of his tongue flicks meanly right over the bundle of nerves.

“Not when the air was soon thick with the cloying scent of cooking muscle—”

His movement slow, but he glides his tongue through the arousal coating your pussy. It feels good when he kisses it again, softer, this time.

“—not even when the tongues screamed—not for help. They…They cried out her name—for the first, and last, time.”

You pause, and take a deep breath, finally daring to look over at him, at the mess he’s made between your thighs.

Your pussy glistens with saliva, as do his slick-smeared lips.

Victory should feel clean, and yet it doesn't.

You exhale shakily, the journal slipping from your fingers, pages curling slightly from how tightly you’d been gripping them.

Sukuna lifts his head slowly, the corner of his mouth glistening with damp, glinting mischief in the low light. For a second he just studies you, watches your breath stutter and your thighs twitch involuntarily around him.

A finally he speaks.

“She never tasted the fruit.”

Your stomach tightens, pulse hammering, but by the time you open your mouth, he’s already shifting upward, dragging his hands along your thighs as he rises, pushing your knees farther apart.

“Stick your tongue out.”

Hesitantly, you part your lips, unfurling your tongue for him.

He doesn't rush. Instead, he runs his thumb slowly over the flat of your tongue—pressing down just slightly, enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“So clean,” he murmurs, as if disappointed.

His other hand slips behind your neck, cradling your skull. You feel the pressure of him everywhere—against your thigh, your jaw, the edges of your sanity.

“You buried the fruit. Watered it. Listened to its secrets.”

Another press, firmer now. His thumb still resting on your tongue.

“But you never let it change you.”

And then, as if to show you what he means, he slips two fingers into your mouth alongside his thumb.

Your lips part further, breath hitching. You suck instinctively, and his breath shudders at the sensation—but still, he holds control like a wire pulled tight.

And then his grip shifts, fingers grabbing the slick muscle to lift it, sliding his thumb along the soft, silky underside.

He presses into the flesh, where that thin membrane connects it.

“This is where she cut it, right?” he whispers. “So it couldn’t keep the silence anymore.”

You stare at him, a twinge of fear running cold through you that maybe he’s going to recreate that scene. Cut that delicate flesh.

He’s capable of much worse, after all.

Your breath hitches around his fingers, but you don’t pull away.

His gaze doesn’t waver—watching your face as though your expression is more revealing than anything your body could offer. The intimacy is unbearable, because it’s not entirely lust—it's recognition. A slow, unblinking understanding of what you are when you think no one’s watching.

Then—just as your tongue begins to curl reflexively around the intrusion—he pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, slow and deliberate, dragging your lower lip down slightly as he does.

“Not enough,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Not yet… Keep your tongue out.”

You comply, stretching it out again, till it nearly aches.

And wait.

He studies it like an offering, not like a man about to kiss you.

Images flash in your mind, ones you saw while going through evidence. Crime scene images.

Mutilated tongues, some torn entirely from the base.

His eye flicks from your face to your tongue, pink and trembling in the air. You can feel it twitch slightly, as if unsure whether it wants to retreat or reach for him.

You can only imagine the pain of having your tongue cut out.

Sukuna doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, he leans forward and lets his breath fan over it—warm, steady, humid. Traces of cigarette smoke and alcohol in it.

Then, slower than you expect, he extends his own tongue, and licks yours.

Flat. Wet. One long drag across the length of it.

Not lustful or loving.

His own tongue feels wrong somehow—too warm, too textured. Like it's remembering things your body shouldn't know.

Like he’s passing something into you, or pulling something out. The salty traces of your own arousal, beneath it something mineral-like, like ash, maybe.

The slipperiness of wet muscle gliding against muscle.

Your spine arches, then trembles, like a string pulled taut.

And when he pulls back, his lips don’t close. They remain parted, stained faintly with something that isn’t yours, eye shining with something unnerving.

“Now, you’ve tasted it too.”

You’re still holding your tongue out, blinking, breath shaking.

You don’t know what he means, but at the same time, you think you do.

But the perfect, poised eldest daughter of the family had disappeared right before her own wedding to Sukuna.

Where Sayaka went, no one knows. The authorities were involved, but your father used his connections to keep it from hitting the news—scandal was the real crime, after all.

Of course, you worry for your sister, but there’s resentment too. She left you with nothing but a cold, sharp man who couldn’t care less whether you lived or died—not a single note, not a single word of goodbye.

She couldn’t do it, so here you are, forced to do it instead.

Sukuna steps out first, tall, straight-backed, expression a mask of polite irritation. You follow a few steps behind him up the stone path lined with LED’s to mimic natural lanterns, pausing behind as he opens the front door with a slow push, letting it swing on its hinges.

Even from here, the smell hits you immediately—a blend of old cedar, dust, and perhaps the memory of forgotten incense.

It shouldn’t smell like that.

The house was renovated a year and a half ago but it smells untouched.

“After you,” he says, voice low and sharp, finally turning towards you. Red eyes sweep over you in a glance that makes your stomach tighten as you step over the threshold.

The entrance hall is large but restrained—a checkered tile floor in stone gray and cream, the kind of modern material that tries too hard to imitate something older. The carved wooden staircase winds up from your left to the second floor, lacquered rail gleaming beneath the warm light tucked into the cornice as you toe off your shoes into the rack built into the wainscoting.

Trying not to stumble, you step through the next doorway into the reception room and set your suitcase down.

The silence presses in thick, heavy as you take in your surroundings.

High ceilings supported by decorative crown moldings, smooth white plastered walls with subtle washi textured panels, a fireplace anchored in one wall within a frame of marble.

Around the room are various vintage objects—a mirror frame gilt in gold, velvet armchairs, a porcelain tea set, a grand piano in the corner, and a modern chandelier hanging from the ceilings.

The flooring is dark, oiled keyaki wood and the Persian carpet has faded to the color of dried tea leaves and dead roses.

The space feels both timeless and faintly uncanny—a room caught between centuries.

On the far end of the room a shoji door likely opens to a corridor leading to the Japanese wing and behind you the oak paneled wall hosts portraits—stern ancestors in black-framed oil painting that seem to watch you with careful judgement.

A trait, it seems, inherited by their heir who’s already dumped his bag on the nearest sofa and is pulling out a cigarette and lighter. The lighter gleams, engraved silver and polished, an emblem of old money like the rest of this room

Just the parlor itself is huge, with French doors leading to the veranda and large glass windows overlooking the front garden.

It feels less like a new home and more like a set you’d stepped into by accident.

With the idea that maybe it would be in your best interest to begin to get to know the cold stranger you’re supposed to live out your life with, you clear your throat and speak.

“It’s…bigger than I thought,” you murmur, forcing calm into your voice as your eyes dart around.

Your hands are clammy.

From what you can tell so far, the house is beautiful—luxurious, a careful blend of vintage tradition and modern comforts.

Yet the clean lines and fresh paint only seem to highlight what feels like something lurking beneath the surface, something that refuses to stay buried despite the best efforts.

A kind of wrongness you can’t name, only sense, like something trying—and failing—to imitate what it’s not.

Almost, but not quite.

Or maybe…you’re just in your head again.

Sukuna doesn’t bother to look at you as he strolls towards one of the large glass windows overlooking the front garden, lighting up the cigarette.

Conveniently, there’s already a vintage ashtray on the low table beside him.

“Bigger doesn’t mean better,” he says flatly, cracking the window open to let the smoke curl into the cold autumn air.

The last of daylight is bleeding out, golden rays mellowed out through gauze lace curtains that frame the sides of tall wooden sash windows.

Swallowing, you take another cautious step,

“I can handle it,” you mumble more to yourself than him.

Maybe affirmations will help—because so far this entire ordeal has only been a disaster for your sensitive nerves.

Your sister disappearing, the forced marriage that plucked you out of your own life, the man you are to call your husband…and now this huge house that feels like its gaslighting you into believing its facade of normalcy.

At the sound of your voice he turns, eyes glinting, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Handle it?” he echoes, voice teasing but edged with something sharper. “You think I was the one who had a choice in all this? Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your cheeks burn, a mix of anger and trepidation.

You’d expected him to be distant, perhaps cold—and to some extent he certainly is not only all that but also the kind of man who seems to take issue with every small thing you say or do.

Yet it’s really the way he looks at you—part amusement, part contempt—that makes the room feel smaller than it is.

It doesn’t help that he’s ridiculously, unfairly, disgustingly hot.

Hot in a way that does nothing to ease your tension—eyes like drops of blood, pupils pinpricked, features chiseled and sharp, black nails and skin etched with inky tattoos that mark him as a creature no one should get close to.

The only feature that doesn’t quite match is his hair—not for the messy sweep and undercut, but for the color: pastel pink, soft and almost innocent, utterly at odds with the immediate, daunting presence he radiates.

Safe to say, you are all the way out of your depths.

Lifting your suitcase, you decide to try and start with living arrangements.

“Where do you want me to keep my things?” you ask as politely as you can.

“Anywhere,” he mutters without looking up. “It’s not like I care what corner you clutter up.”

Sukuna has the incredible ability to make anyone feel as though they should apologize for simply existing—merely for the crime of crossing into his life.

Unfortunately there is no one else in this vast, painfully empty household apart from him but you, and so it’s you who’s currently feeling like you should apologize for your birth.

Exhaling softly, you press your lips together. The house feels colder than it should, considering there’s insulation.

“The realtor said this place hasn’t been lived in for years despite the renovations” you start again. “Don’t you think it would be good to— I don’t know— check the pipes, or locks and stuff, just in case?”

Of course your words are met with a cold, disdainful glance.

“What, you scared a ghost’ll crawl out of the plumbing?” He faintly smirks again, more mockery than anything else. “You can handle a faucet, can’t you, wife?”

Your teeth grind, skin burning hot as you try not to fidget noticeably.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You married me, didn’t you?”

He flicks ash into the tray, the sound of it making you flinch.

“Not by choice.”

“Good. Would’ve been sad if you actually wanted this.”

You didn’t—you still don’t.

And somehow the comment feels like a calculated blow towards you anyways.

Silence stretches between you, thick and stifling as you gnaw intently on a loose piece of flesh inside your cheek.

The house doesn’t even creak; it’s pin-drop silent.

“Which…room are you taking?” you finally dare to ask again.

“The master bedroom upstairs.”

“So which room am I supposed to sleep in?”

“Don’t care, as long as its not mine.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

Once again he turns, sharp crimson eyes cutting through the curling smoke. A vicious sneer unfurls on his lips and when he speaks again it’s deceptively calm, though every word is clipped and deliberate.

“You’re stupid if you think I’d sleep with you.”

You freeze, throat tightening, though you force yourself to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Sure you didn’t.” He stands, lazily brushing some ash off his hand and picking up his bag. “Go pick a room, princess. I’m not tucking you in.”

Walking past you, he brushes your shoulder — not hard, but certainly enough to make you feel even smaller, standing all alone with nothing but a single suitcase to remind you that you’re still a person.

You lie on the futon with nothing but the bento box your mother packed for dinner—a cold dinner you ate alone in this hollow, stifling room.

The one you chose sits on the farthest end of the estate from Sukuna’s bedroom: a tatami room that somehow survived the twenty-first-century renovations that transformed the rest of the house with glass and steel, humming with central heating and polished sterility.

Here, though, the walls still breathe that faint, timeworn scent that met you the moment you stepped inside.

It’s nice enough, but quiet.

Too quiet.

Wrapping the blanket tighter and tighter around yourself, the makeshift cocoon that does nothing to stop the chill seeping in from beneath the sliding doors—drafts that shouldn’t exist in a house so thoroughly sealed and insulated.

You’ve always been the sort to startle too easily. In primary school, your friends made a game of it—creeping up behind you, whispering your name just to watch you flinch.

But the older you grew, the less harmless it became.

People say childhood fears fade away with time.

Yours only ripened into something heavier, a quiet dread that pressed in after dark.

With age your imagination learned new cruelties, learned to carve shapes out of shadow—faces where there were none, motion in stillness, a presence that lingered just beyond the edge of reason.

Still, it had been easy enough to laugh off at home—paranoia, childish nerves, nothing more than a simple quirk of yours.

But in this house…

In this house the silence has a sound of its own, and the longer you stay awake the louder it gets.

A sharp crack splits the silence overhead—probably just the beams adjusting to the night air—but it startles you all the same.

And of course, it’s all you can do to convince yourself there isn’t someone standing out on the veranda.

Then comes the soft, deliberate scratch of something outside, and your eyes go wide, palms damp.

It’s natural, you tell yourself—Sukuna, maybe, moving around to get water from the kitchen. Or the old frame settling. Or a raccoon dog nosing through the moss near the foundation.

After all, the forest presses in especially close on this side of the house.

Which only makes it worse, really.

If you think about it too much, even your own thoughts begin to sound suspect—like the house is listening, remembering what it used to be before someone tried to make it new again.

For perhaps two hours you lie there—shivering, curled up, the blanket wrapped tight around you as if it can still the racing of your heart.

Sleep refuses to come.

Every sound, every whisper of wind against the paper screens sends your pulse higher, your eyes darting through the dark like a prey animal sensing movement.

At some point, the thought crosses your mind—maybe you should go to Sukuna’s room.

Cruel as he is, even his sharp tongue would be preferable to this hollow quiet. The simple warmth of another person nearby might be enough to anchor you because it’s the isolation that gnaws worst of all.

He’s probably asleep by now, you think. Maybe you could just slip in quietly, stay the night before he even notices—

No.

The defiance comes quick, almost desperate. You won’t beg for comfort, not from him.

Not after his sneers, not after his barbed words—he thinks you pathetic enough as it is already.

So you stay, pulse heavy while shadows seem to creep closer, papered windows rustling slightly from the night’s wind until finally you sit up with gritted teeth as though you can face down the dark itself.

Movement catches at the edge of your vision.

Your gaze jerks toward the shōji paneling—and for an instant, you’re certain you see the faint outline of a shadow moving behind it.

But when you blink, there’s nothing.

Still, your eyes stay fixed, your fingers knotting tighter into the blanket, uncertain of what you’re even watching for—only that you are.

You try to reason with yourself, to call it nerves, a trick of light, the mind clawing for meaning in this strange new space—

Something shifts in the corner of the room.

Faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably wrong.

Along the tatami near the wall, a scraping sound runs deliberate and patient.

Air exits your lungs, blood pounds in your ears.

You shouldn’t have come here, you shouldn’t have come here, you should’ve stayed home—this was a mistake, all of it—

The thought loops endlessly, a frantic pulse in your skull.

You want to scream, to run straight to Sukuna’s room, but pride pins you where you are and you manage only to drop back onto the futon, clutching the blanket up to your chin like a child hiding from the dark.

The sound deepens—a low, dragging whisper across the floorboards. It slides closer, patient and steady, raising the fine hairs on your arms until you can feel the tremor in your skin.

Fingers digging into the futon, you actually start praying—well more like begging for help from some higher being as your heart stutters in your chest.

Then a chill brushes the nape of your neck, cold enough to lift your hair.

There’s no window open—there can’t be.

It’s the house, you tell yourself. The age, the wood, some trick of airflow—there must be a scientific explanation, something ordinary, something human.

It has to be.

But the lie curdles sour as cold sweat seeps from your pores and you shiver violently.

It’s nothing, it’s nothing—

Another shift—closer this time—then a faint thump against the wall behind you that makes you jump.

Eyes clenching shut, you tell yourself you’re imagining things—even as every nerve insists you aren’t.

Minutes drag into hours in that suspended state of dread; you lying rigid beneath the blanket, barely breathing, as if stillness might make you invisible.

The sound circles you—a slow scrape, a soft drag across the boards —deliberate, patient, like it’s testing you.

And still… you do not call out to Sukuna.

Not for help.

Not once.

By some small mercy, the noise fades. The wind rises outside, rattling the windows, reclaiming the silence.

When you dare to open your eyes, the room is still—empty, orderly, as though nothing had ever disturbed it.

Your hands tremble too violently to hold the blanket straight.

Curling in on yourself, shivering, you hover in that fragile space between exhaustion and panic. You don’t have it in you to cry, but the solitude flays you raw regardless.

Half-dreaming, you reach for memories of home.

Your real home. The four safe walls of your childhood room.

And you keep remembering to avoid the fact that some part of you knows that somewhere deep in the house, something had watched you, tested you, and is still waiting.

You wake to morning light filtering through the shoji, drawing long, pale rectangles across the tatami.

Everything is quiet—serene, almost—but the stillness only reminds you how little you truly slept. The few hours you managed were a blur of half-dreams and shallow breathing.

Even now, as you sit up and gather yourself for the day—for him—the weight of exhaustion tugs at your eyes.

Crossing the glass-enclosed engawa, the chill of the floorboards seeps faintly through your socks.

You pause despite yourself.

The inner courtyard, framed in morning mist, is achingly beautiful.

Dew glittering like shards of glass on the moss and the low maple branches, each droplet trembling before it falls. The leaves are mostly green still, though the first veins of crimson have begun to creep in as if the trees are quietly bleeding into autumn.

A koi pond mirrors the soft sky—pale gold, almost translucent. Beneath the surface, the fish flicker and vanish, sending slow ripples across the water.

You admire, you envy, then you move on.

Finally, you reach the double doors to the kitchen and ease one open, only to find him already there—tall frame propped against the counter, a mug steaming faintly in his hand, scrolling his phone with the other.

Sukuna’s eyes flick toward you, sharp and unreadable, tracking each step as you move quietly to the fridge.

You pull out another neatly packed bento—your mother’s handiwork—and though the day has barely begun, tension has already coiled tight in your chest.

Should you greet him? Say good morning? Pretend you don’t see him at all?

Opting for silence, you set your meal in the microwave and allow the hum to fill the silence. If he wants to speak, he can.

Of course, he doesn’t.

And in that case, you see no need to bother with pleasantries either—especially not when you have bigger concerns on your mind.

Clearing your throat, you try to feign nonchalance as you take the box out though your fingers betray you—gripping the edges tighter than they should.

“About last night…” you begin, voice tentative.

He hums without looking up from his screen. With the way he regards you—like you’re barely there—you might as well be the ghost haunting a house that isn’t yours.

“Hm?”

“I—” You swallow hard. “I think something…happened while I was in bed.”

The words feel fragile, hanging in the air.

How do you even bring this up without being dismissed outright?

Sukuna finally glances up, expression unreadable at first—then his mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. “And you’re telling me this why, exactly?”

You blink, bento box clutched firmly. “What?”

“I’m saying,” he drawls, setting his phone down with a quiet clack, “I don’t need to know what you do in your bed, princess. Especially if you’re going to…make noises about it over breakfast.”

There’s no way. He cannot possibly mean what you think he’s saying.

Your jaw drops. “It’s not like that!”

The man makes you nervous enough as it is, and this brazen attitude of his on top makes you want to shrink into yourself, as if disappearing entirely would keep you safe from his cutting gaze.

Lazy amusement gleams in his eyes as he eases further back against the counter. “Mm. Sure. So what was it, then? Nightmares? Or were you just lonely?”

Despite the fact that it’s not true—the accusation makes your cheeks burn hot as you try to keep your eyes on him. “You’re disgusting.”

“Ah, so now I’m disgusting,” he murmurs, tapping his mug against his lip as though thinking. “Ten minutes into marriage and I’m already getting scolded for not satisfying my wife’s nightly needs.”

“I said it wasn’t that!” you snap indignantly.

He laughs—a short, quiet sound that somehow cuts deeper than if he’d shouted. “Then stop sounding like it was. You woke up scared, that’s all. Don’t invent ghosts just to make me come running.”

Your throat tightens as he picks up his phone again. “You think I’m making it up. I didn’t even tell you what it was yet, and you think I’m making it up.”

“I think you like attention,” he says easily, eyes dropping back to his screen. “And you’re getting it. Congratulations.”

“What?! Sukuna— I’m serious! I heard something last nigh—”

“Apart from your own fingers, you mean?”

If the point was to humiliate you into leaving him alone, it worked. Whatever that was last night—it isn’t worth this.

Hell, maybe you did imagine it after all.

Hopefully, you did.

And maybe you were naive to expect anything different.

You’ve heard it your whole life—sensitive, skittish, overactive imagination, paranoid—every label like a pin to the skin. So why would Sukuna be the one to take you seriously?

“Just… forget it,” you mutter, turning away.

Behind you, his voice cuts through the air—calm, almost offhand, but sharp enough to make your jaw tighten.

“Don’t get too lost in your fantasies,” he calls. “Wouldn’t want you forgetting the moving trucks come today.”

The sun is already high by the time the low rumble of engines outside cuts through the silence that’s hung since breakfast.

You flinch—hadn’t even realized how long you’d been sitting there, frozen in your room, replaying that little exchange over and over, thinking of all the things you should’ve said instead.

When you finally creep down the hall to the parlor and ease open one of the French doors to the front veranda, the moving truck is already in the driveway, back doors yawning open.

Sukuna’s outside, directing the movers with that same crisp, unhurried authority. He looks entirely unfazed—like this is just another transaction, another job to be handled and forgotten.

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. The sight makes something twist inside you.

It’s the same look he wore during the ceremony—detached, composed, as if the entire marriage, the entire you, were nothing more than another formality to check off.

You tell yourself it’s expected, and yet somewhere deep down, it still stings.

He glances up once, catches you watching, and the faint smirk that curves his mouth tells you he hasn’t forgotten a single word from earlier.

“You gonna stand there spying or actually make yourself useful and come help?”

With a deep breath, you take a small step out onto the veranda. “I…didn’t know they were here already.”

“They’ve been here for ten minutes. Thought you were too busy having some more personal playtime in your room,” he calls rather loudly across the front garden.

“Sukuna!” you hiss, eyes widening as you glance around, praying none of the movers caught that. “Do not talk to me like that!”

He only laughs—low, amused, the sound of someone perfectly aware he’s gotten under your skin.

You stomp down the veranda steps, jaw tight, refusing to look at him.

“Relax,” he drawls behind you, that infuriating smirk audible in his voice. “It’s just a joke.”

It’s infuriating how easily he moves through the chaos—sleeves rolled up, giving orders, the air around him heavy with authority and that effortless control you can’t stand.

By midafternoon the sun hangs high, casting long, warm stripes of light across the veranda.

You’re grateful it isn’t summer; if it were, this might’ve been unbearable. As it is, the sheer size of the house makes the work feel endless—every hallway, every tatami-floored room demanding something to be carried, cleaned, or rearranged.

And of course, every time you try to lift a box, he’s there. Watching.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you keep pretending you can carry that,” he remarks smugly, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint amusement playing in his eyes.

You glare up at him, breath coming unevenly as the weight drags at your arms.

“What? You want me to say I’m impressed?” he adds with mock sincerity. “Fine — I’m impressed you haven’t dropped it yet.”

He turns away before you can bite back a retort, but you catch it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smirk he tries to hide.

The heat, the noise, him—all of it feels unbearable. By the time the movers finally drive off sweat clings to your scalp and your feet ache.

You stand at the doors to the parlor, flushed from the sun and the weight of the boxes—more than half of which still sit unopened and scattered across the floor.

Sukuna’s sprawled across the velvet sofa, a bottle of water in one hand, the other arm draped lazily along the backrest, shirt hanging half-unbuttoned.

“You could’ve at least helped bring in some of it,” you say, folding your arms.

He glances up at you, expression unreadable. “I did help. I told them where to put it.”

“You stood on the porch drinking beer while they did all the work.”

A brow arches, unbothered. “Delegation. You should try it sometime.”

You let out a sharp breath, brushing damp hair from your face. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirks. “You married me.”

Your lips part—but nothing comes out because he knows exactly how to hit that sore spot. Every time he says married or wife it sounds less like a fact and more like the punchline to a cruel joke.

“Maybe I made a mistake,” you mutter.

“Only maybe?” He lifts the bottle and downs the rest of it, before replying, “Well I know for a fact this was a mistake.”

“Yeah, but you don’t even try to make this easier.”

“I didn’t think it was supposed to be easy,” he says simply, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But you—you come in here acting like it’s a fairy tale, then get mad when it isn’t.”

You bristle, nails digging into your palms. “Asking you to just be decent isn’t act—”

With a raised hand, he cuts you off. “Relax, you’ll give yourself wrinkles. The movers are gone, the house is standing, and we’ve only argued three times today. I’d call that progress.”

“You think this is funny?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “A little. You don’t seem good for much else besides entertainment, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not even good for entertainment,” you snap. “Tell me—what do I get out of this? From this marriage? From you?”

That stupid smirk widens. “You like to look at me.”

A momentary loss of words at his sheer audacity, has your mouth opening and closing before you shake your head.

“You know what, if you want to stroke your own ego, go ahead. I’m done with this,” you finally huff, turning away.

“And here I was thinking you were doing such a lovely job of stroking it for me, wife.”

His voice drips with smugness, stirring a low growl in your throat. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to rise to the bait.

Instead, you march over to the stack of boxes by the entryway and crouch down, tearing one open just to do something—anything—to keep from throwing something at him. The soft scrape of cardboard fills the silence, the mundane sound grounding you.

Until from the couch, his voice drifts over, lower now, almost casual. “You missed one near the staircase. Medium sized one with your name on it in bold.”

You freeze—because you know exactly which box he means.

Shit—you meant to sneak it to your room but amidst everything, you forgot.

And there’s not just one—there are two boxes you meant to hide. But that second one is a problem for later.

“I’ll get to it later,” you say quickly.

He doesn’t move, just watches you from across the room, the faintest hint of a sly grin tugging at his mouth. “No, go on. Let’s see what’s in it. Could be something important.”

Your pulse jumps. “It’s just clothes.”

He lets out a low, amused sound. “Yeah? The way you’re guarding it, I’d guess otherwise.”

“Sukuna, it’s just clothes! What makes you think you have the right to go through my things?”

He doesn’t bother answering—mostly because he knows it’s unfair, and partly because he couldn’t care less.

“Bring it over here and open it,” he says, voice silkier now, the challenge unmistakable. “Or I’ll open it myself.”

There’s something about the weight of his tone, his whole presence—an authority that rouses a nervous urgency in you, like some buried instinct insisting you listen. A kind of urgency that feels like a survival instinct, even if you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t actually hurt you.

Would he?

It hits you again, like cold water—despite all your arguing, all your proximity, you don’t know this man.

So, jaw tight, you stalk over to the entryway, grab the box, and drag it back into the parlor. It lands at his feet with a heavy thud.

“Go ahead,” he presses.

Again you hesitate—but you know that not opening it would be far worse. The things he might invent to torment you would be far crueler than what’s actually inside.

The tape peels back with a slow awful rip, and you lift the flaps to reveal what’s inside.

Innocuous bundles of folded fabric greet your eyes.

You stay silent, hoping his interest will wane.

Instead, after a second—

“Pick up the clothes on top. Show me what’s underneath.”

God. You’re never going to hear the end of this.

Cursing yourself for being so careless, you reluctantly lifting some of the folded clothes to reveal what’s hidden underneath—silk, satin, lace…

Sukuna lets out a low whistle that makes blood run up till your ears, tilting his head with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen him wear in the few days you’ve known him.

“So you have been holding out on me.”

“I—I didn’t pack those,” you stammer stupidly, coming up with the most unbelievable excuse in your panic. “My mom—”

“Your mom bought you lingerie?” he laughs. “How touching.”

“She was being practical.”

“Oh yeah, real practical. ‘Here, sweetie, take these in case your husband needs convincing.’”

Heat crawls all over your skin like insects—uncomfortable and invasive and impossible to ignore. “That’s disgusting.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” he says, leaning over to take a better look at your collection, eyes scanning over your intimate wear. “Maybe you were planning ahead.”

“Planning—?”

“Can’t blame you. I’d be curious too, marrying a stranger,” he tilts his head, snatching up a skimpy, lacy mockery of a bra before you can protest. “Figured you’d test the waters, huh?”

“Put that down!”

“No way. Turn around,” he coaxes.

You don’t know why you obey—maybe mortification has you cornered, maybe it’s the strange, stifling pull of his authority—but you twist, hesitating, shoulders tight, eyes wide.

Sukuna’s grin spreads slowly, deliberately, and you freeze when he holds the bra up to your breasts, pushing lightly against them as he tilts his head, clearly trying to imagine what they’d look like on you.

You’re fully clothed but the way he’s undressing you with his eyes alone has your breath shortening, swallowing thickly.

“Mm…tell you what,” he proposes smoothly like this is no more than another business deal. “You wear any of these that I pick, and I’ll unpack the rest of the boxes and set everything up, no questions asked.”

Your pulse rockets up to your throat, mouth dry.

On one hand, these boxes are going to be a fucking pain in the ass, but on the other—

“Any…of them?”

He hums. “Something that shows off your tits. Maybe some crotchless panties, too—I know you definitely have a pair in there.”

You stay quiet.

“Oh, and,” he leans in, whispering just close enough to make your skin crawl, “something red—suits desperate girls better.”

That does it.

You snatch the lace from his hand, shoving it violently back into the box, cheeks burning, fury coiling tight in your chest. His laughter trails behind you—sharp, derisive, punctuating your humiliation.

Because this wasn’t about desire, not at all, it was about making a fool out of you, piece by piece.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” you spit, rising with the box under one arm before you turn and stalk away.

A floorboard creaks under your foot—like the house is laughing along with him.

You spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding Sukuna, unpacking boxes on the side of the house you’ve silently claimed as yours and exploring the estate.

A typical Meiji-era manor—the Western wing, obviously Sukuna’s domain, grand and suffused with quiet nostalgia, the kind that hums beneath polished wood and heavy drapery.

The Japanese wing, by contrast, is the side you’ve staked out for yourself—serene, shoji panels filtering the light, warm wood framework, the silence so complete it presses against your ears.

The estate feels larger when you’re alone—cavernous, echoing, too still for comfort.

Every sound is multiplies; even your own footsteps feel intrusive, a violation of the quiet.

By late afternoon, a car rolls into the driveway. Pressing against the window, you catch sight of a pale-haired figure stepping from the vehicle, paper bags in hand.

“Uraume,” Sukuna calls over his shoulder. “Leave them in the kitchen.”

The newcomer nods, precise and quiet, every motion measured. “Of course.”

When Sukuna introduces them—out of obligation, it seems—you murmur a polite greeting. Uraume will be helping with groceries and meals throughout the week. Their gaze flickers briefly toward you, something almost curious in it, before they look away.

Once they leave, you return to unpacking, halfway through a box of dishes, when something shifts in the corner of your eye through the open door to the zashiki.

You freeze, squinting.

A figure stands in the next room—a young woman in a muted dress, back turned, hands busy dusting the alcove.

A maid? You hadn’t been told there was one.

Tentatively, you step closer to the doorway. “Uh…hello?”

She turns slowly, a faint, polite smile on her lips as she bows. “Oh, hi! I’m just here to help out.”

Her voice is light, friendly enough, but there’s something about her that makes your stomach twist — she looks oddly familiar, though you can’t quite place her face.

And her eyes…they don’t seem to focus on you. There’s something glassy in them, something faraway.

If you didn’t know any better, you could swear she looks through you, not at you.

“Oh…okay,” you murmur, shifting uneasily. “So you’ll be coming around a few days a week too?”

The smile on her lips widens just a fraction too wide. “You might see me more often than that.”

The air feels suddenly colder.

You nod too quickly and back away, muttering a polite thanks before turning down the hall.

When you glance over your shoulder again, the doorway’s empty.

You tell yourself she probably just stepped out the other way.

You tell yourself that, and keep walking.

From your first day in the new home, you’ve concluded that something is off—small things no one else would notice, but you do.

All of them.

Random cold spots through the manor are old news by now.

Then there are the crooked shadows, particularly in the zashiki overlooking the small north garden, or along parts of the engawa that run along the glass-enclosed courtyard—the angles never quite match the sunlight or the placement of the light fixtures.

Mismatched details stand out, too.

Renovations were supposedly recent, yet some light switches and door handles look decades older, as if they were replaced once, and then replaced again with the originals.

Both hallways that lead to your room in the southeastern corner slope ever so subtly—Sukuna didn’t ask what you were doing when he caught you rolling coins down them.

And sure enough, the coins always rolled straight toward your room.

The floor creaks.

Not enough on its own to warrant concern—but enough to make you swear it continues long after you stop walking, like footsteps lingering an extra beat.

Nothing overtly wrong—and that’s the worst part.

Come nightfall, you decide a bath is in order.

There are two full bathrooms—the one in Sukuna’s master bedroom, and the main bath suite just down the hall from your room, tucked beside the kitchen.

And that bathroom is impressive—a small dressing room with a cedar bench, towel racks, and sinks leading into the bathing area proper.

Gray slate floors, a rain showerhead, and a deep hinoki tub for soaking afterward, complete with digital temperature control. A separate cubicle holds the toilet, neatly isolated.

The problem isn’t the bath itself—it’s its placement in the northeastern corner of the estate.

Considered inauspicious and often called the demon gate, this part of old houses was frequently left empty to let spirits pass.

At your childhood home, you could’ve dismissed such things as superstition.

Here…you’re not so sure.

Maybe it’s just a suggestion in your mind, a place to blame your unease—but it does make you feel especially off.

Still, you push the thought aside, change into your towel, and pad quietly down the corridor, turning right and walking to the end, toward the bathroom.

Opening the door to the dressing chamber first, you’re greeted by pale wood walls, the faint, lingering scent of cedar, and pristine sinks with racks neatly arranged to hold your things.

You stare, unable to decide what exactly you’re searching for.

Everything looks spotless, almost impossibly new, yet the air carries a faint, damp chill, and the fluorescent light hums a little too loudly overhead.

Your gut twists. You shouldn’t be here—especially not at your most exposed, towel barely clinging to you, vulnerability pressing against your skin.

Swaying on your heels, hesitating, you weigh your options, and after a moment, quietly close the door.

You’ll simply have to ask Sukuna to use his bathroom—and hope he agrees.

Even if it means looking foolish in front of him, it’s better that than enduring whatever lingering unease this room has draped over you.

Traipsing half-naked across the grounds, you circle the entire first floor, finally stopping at the study door.

A deep breath, then three tentative knocks.

Then you open the door just enough to get a glimpse of cigarette smoke curling in the dim light. He’s still in his dinner shirt, sleeves rolled up, the desk lamp casting a warm, deliberate line across his jaw.

His eyes flick down to your towel-wrapped frame, linger, then rise with deliberate slowness.

“If you’re here to complain about ghosts again,” he says dryly, “I’m busy.”

You clutch the towel tighter. “I’m not. I just…would it be all right if I used your shower tonight?”

“No.”

Your mouth parts. “No?”

He leans back, arm draped lazily over the chair. “You can use your own bathroom. I’m not sharing mine.”

“I…” You swallow. “I wasn’t asking to share it. Just…once—”

His mouth quirks. “That’s what sharing means, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you mutter.

He exhales smoke, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Then don’t stand half-naked at my door asking to get in my shower.”

You fumble over words, caught between indignation and mortification. “I wasn’t—it’s not like that!”

This might easily be one of his most infuriating habits—deliberately twisting your words back onto you with the means of embarrassing you into deference.

Again you gather yourself, trying your best to make it sound reasonable. “That bathroom just feels…weird—like in a…weird part of the house—”

Sukuna stares, the faint curl of smoke drifting between you.

“You’re scared of a dark corner of the house, so your solution is to shower in my room?”

“…Yes?”

Then he stands—suddenly enough to make you jolt, though you manage to stay rooted in place.

“Should I stand guard while you wash up too? Maybe help with the towel when there’s a little accident and it slips?”

You flinch. “You’re an ass.”

“Not denying it.” Your breath stumbles somewhere in your throat when he steps closer.

He’s not smiling now—just looking.

Gaze dragging from your face down to the edge of your towel where it hugs your chest. That same look from earlier, like he’s peeling the fabric back to see what’s underneath.

“You really that desperate to be near me?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

His laugh is low, soft, and not nice. “You came to me, princess.”

“You really think that’s what I want? From you?” you manage to bite back, voice tight.

His eyes gleam—that usual taunting ridicule you’ve become all too familiar with, but also something unreadable.

“You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t like the idea.”

“I do not—not everything is about you!”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” his expression shifts, all mirth draining away, replaced by the usual austerity. “Because the answer is still no.”

This is utterly ridiculous. At this point it’s just a battle of egos—neither of you willing to back down over a stupid bathroom, like two rams butting heads.

You square your shoulders, meeting his gaze.

“This is a shared living space,” you say, surprised at your own nerve. “That means I’m entitled to that bathroom. And the rooms. All of it.”

A pause.

“Entitled,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “You move into a house owned and provided by my family—”

“Do you think I wanted that, Sukuna?” you snap, the frustration that’s been simmering all day finally boiling over. “You think I wanted any of this—including this fucking house? No! But here I am, having to live in it anyway, so the least I can do is claim my share, okay?”

For a beat, he just stares—eyes narrowed, unreadable—before his expression loosens into that infuriating, condescending ease.

“You’re absolutely right, wife.”

“I am?…” The word catches you off guard before you straighten, chin lifted. “Of course I am.”

“Everything here is yours,” he goes on smoothly. “The floors, the kitchen, my bathroom. Hell, why don’t we even share the goddamn bed while we’re at it, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck. “I get it—you never wanted this, I never wanted this—but stop punishing me like I arranged this… marriage.” You spit the word like poison. “The least you can do is give me what I’m owed.”

He doesn’t interrupt this time. Just watches you, amusement flickering like a spark in his eyes—the kind that tells you he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

And when he finally does speak, it’s soft and cutting.

“You want your rights as my wife,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “maybe you should start acting the part.”

“And what exactly does that include?” you ask sarcastically. “Making your bed? Spoon feeding you? Gentle parenting you?”

He smirks wickedly, like you’ve walked straight into his trap. “You can start with dropping that towel so I can see my dear wife—all of her. And decide if any of this is even worth it.”

It might not be the worst of the perverted jokes and innuendos he’s thrown at you all day, but it is the one that finally makes you crack.

You spin on your heel before he can see your eyes tear up.

It’s been so busy since you arrived that you barely had space to feel homesick—but now it hits, a hollow punch to your stomach.

You don’t want to be here.

You want to go home, to your old life, to your friends, to the life you were poised to build—you’d just graduated, ready to find your place in the world, before being forcefully torn out by your roots and thrown here, where no part of you fits.

You don’t want to be with him. And the thought of ever being intimate with someone who sees you like that—not out of desire, not from any sense of connection or closeness—but as a tool for humiliation, reducing you to nothing but flesh to claim… it makes your skin crawl.

It would have preserved more of your dignity if he had simply rejected you entirely, showing not the slightest inclination toward you in that way.

Behind you, his voice follows, sharp and taunting. “Well, I guess that answers that.”

Your grip on the towel tightens. You won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around, but even without looking you hear the faint click of his lighter, the slow exhale of smoke, and the final, smug murmur as you shut the door behind you.

“Shared house or not, princess, that bathroom stays mine.”

When you reach the bathroom, slipping your towel off, toes curling against the cool stone, the unease inside you is swallowed whole by a deeper ache.

Tears run in rivulets alongside the warm water as you stare at your toes, wondering for what reason he could possibly despise you this much.

Because you’re not supposed to be here. Because this wasn’t your place to take—it was hers.

You feel like nothing but a cheap, flimsy imposter.

Lost in your thoughts, you just barely register a sound above the falling water—a faint, unmistakable hiss of the toilet flushing.

Wrapped in steam and heat, you stiffen, blood running cold.

It must be Sukuna—you’re sure you locked the door and putting aside the unlikelihood of it, you’re sure you would’ve caught it if someone passed by the frosted glass doors of the shower on their way to the toilet cubicle.

But it has to be him.

It has to be.

For a good three minutes you stand unmoving, ears straining to catch anything—maybe the toilet flushing again, the door opening, or perhaps his silhouette passing by you to exit the bathing area.

Under normal circumstances you would be livid and mortified, but right now you pray that it’s him.

Silence. Nothing but water falling.

The toilet must have flushed on its own.

With the heated seat, remote-control bidet, and motion-sensor lid, you wouldn’t be surprised if it even had an automatic flush when you stood.

And this house hasn’t been touched since its renovation over a decade ago—not leased, not rented, not even as an AirBNB.

The tech must just be faulty, that’s all.

For two more minutes you wait, and still…nothing.

Hesitantly you let yourself relax again, squeezing some shampoo to lather in your hair. Fingers massaging your scalp, your thoughts almost drift back to where they were—

BANG.

You shriek and jump, just barely keeping yourself from stumbling, pulse pounding wildly.

“SUKUNA?! THAT IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY!”

God, you knew he had it out for you, but this seems a bit unreasonable even for him.

Silence.

One moment, then another.

The asshole must’ve gotten a good laugh out of that before moving on—

BANGBANGBANGBANG—

You nearly slip again, pressing yourself against the cool tile behind you, wishing you could melt into it, eyes wide as panic claws at your chest.

Should you stay in the shower? Step out and lock yourself in the toilet cubicle? Has someone broken into the house just because new people moved in? What do they want—and how long will that door even hold?

Silence.

As sudden as it began, it’s gone, leaving your ears ringing, lungs burning.

You’re done. You should’ve just used his shower anyway. Or maybe, at this point, it would be better to skip showering altogether if this is how it’s going to be.

Whatever it is, you need out—and fast. Go get Sukuna, because surely he must’ve heard it too. Or maybe…something happened to him.

You can’t tell if it’s a case of whatever or whoever’s behind that door, but both possibilities are equally terrifying.

Eyes squeezing shut, you tilt your head back into the spray to rinse the suds as fast you can, the world narrowing to the rush of water, the heat, the pounding in your chest.

When you open your eyes again—

There’s a figure standing inches from the glass.

Too close. Too still. Too tall.

The shape of a head, a body—black where the light should be.

You barely manage a sound before panic surges and you stumble backwards and slip. Shoulder slamming into the tiled wall, the world spins and your temple cracks into solid stone.

Everything folds inward.

The last thing you hear is the slow creak of the door easing open.