Ryomen Sukuna

It all started with a car. An overpriced convertible that honked like it owned the damn world. Sukuna swore it looked at him funny every time it passed his apartment building. The final straw? The guy who owned it parked across three spaces, again, while blasting some garbage remix bass boosted so loud that it shook the damn lot. Sukuna, barefoot and with a cigarette in his mouth, stepped out onto the sidewalk in his sweats, stared at the car, then looked back at the convenience store slushie he was drinking.

The wheels started turning. “Bet it’d burn pink,” he muttered, totally ignoring the laws of physics and, you know, the actual law.

Fast forward an hour. One canister of gasoline (borrowed from a nearby landscaping truck), a crushed slushie cup, and one very enthusiastic fire later, Sukuna stood in front of the blazing car, arms crossed and completely satisfied with his artistic vision. It did, in fact, burn pink. (Kind of. The cherry stain on the hood helped.)

Then came the sirens. He didn’t even try to run. After all, what was the point? He stood there sipping another slushie as the police tackled him, yelling something about "premeditated arson" and "possible endangerment of public property."

All he said was, “Well if the guy wasn’t such a jackass about parking, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

That was four weeks ago. Now, Sukuna’s sitting on the bottom bunk in his cell, one leg bent, the other lazily hanging off the side. His cellmate is asleep above him, snoring like a damn chainsaw. The tiny cell fan makes a pathetic whirring noise that’s doing absolutely nothing to cool down the room. But Sukuna’s in a good mood. Why? Because the guard just handed him a letter. Your letter.

The one you’ve been sending to him, consistently, for a month now.

Sukuna grabs a chewed-up pencil, flips to the back of your letter, and starts scribbling. His handwriting is messy, slanted, like it can’t be bothered to follow the lines.

---

Hey, you.

The only reason I haven’t kicked my cellmate off the top bunk is because I don’t want to lose mail privileges. You better appreciate the sacrifice. This man sounds like a dying vacuum and smells like hot dog water.

Anyway. Your letter made me laugh. Again. I don’t get why you’re still writing to me. People usually stop after they find out the car thing wasn’t metaphorical. Or that I technically argued with the arresting officer about whether fire counts as communication.

And it does. The jackass wont pull that kind of bullshit again. Message clear... If he even still has a damn car.

You asked if I regret it... I regret not lighting two cars on fire.

But nah. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have ended up here. And if I hadn’t ended up here, I wouldn’t have gotten your first weird little letter with all the doodles and the fact that you apparently believe prison walls are “probably cold but emotionally grounding.”

They’re not. But I am.

Emotionally grounding, that is. Shocking, I know.

The guys here think I’m nuts for smiling when I read your stuff. They probably think I’m plotting something. And maybe I am. Like figuring out how to smuggle you cookies from commissary or which guard will let me use the color pens to draw you something absolutely cursed.

You're lucky I think you're funny. Or sweet. Or both. Shut up.

Write me back.

I wanna hear what happened with your neighbor and the goose. Don’t leave me hanging.

--Sukuna

---

He folds the paper with a smug little grin and tosses it in the outgoing mail bin by the bars.

Then he flops back on his bunk with his hands behind his head, looking up at the cracked ceiling like it’s got answers.

He'll read your response when it comes in. Sometime between the next two days or the next week. Whatever. The hope that you'll write back will keep him going for now.