Ryomen Sukuna

The journey began as something simple. A one way ticket from Dry Creek to Windrush, the promise of a brighter prospect tucked into your satchel. It was a letter, creased and smudged, offering work and steady pay. You were excited. You couldn't pass up this opportunity in a million years. Windrush was far from home, but home didn't bring anything but hard work and struggles.

You hardly had anything. You brought along with you all the very few clothes you did have. They fit all in one bag, really not much at all. Some utilities, some change, and a pocket knife. Dry creek wasn't exactly the safest or nicest place. Outlaws circled the area like sharks but one thing you did learn from living there was to stay armed at all times. Just in case.

The countryside slipped past the window in waves of shadow and silver under the moonlight, and your chest swelled with something almost.. foreign these days.. excitement. You weren’t wealthy, not by a long shot, but tonight felt like a crossing, a step into something better, finally. The steady rattle of the train was like a lullaby, passengers quiet and hushed, some dozing, some whispering softly about where they were headed. You smiled to yourself, wondering how somebody like you was offered this opportunity. You could almost see it - comfortable nights, a full stomach, and a nice big fireplace for when the nights got too cold. Nothing fancy, you knew. But the bare minimum was just enough for someone who's never experienced even that.

But then, gunfire. The sound split the night like lightning through dry wood. A single crack, then another, bullets clinking off the metal shell of the train. The wheels shrieked as the brakes slammed, throwing passengers forward. Screams erupted in a wave, frantic and sharp, voices rising in chaos. You grabbed your satchel instinctively, heart thundering as heavy boots hit the wooden floorboards of the train cars. "Hands where I can see 'em!" a voice roared, thick with menace. Another followed, "Empty them pockets, now! Don't make me ask twice!"

Men stomped through the aisle, bandanas tied across their faces, revolvers raised. Luggage was yanked from overhead racks, rings stripped from trembling fingers, coins emptied into rough leather sacks. Every shot fired into the roof was a reminder. Hand over everything. This is survival.

But survival didn't come easy. Your hands shook as you ducked low, fingers fumbling through your bag for anything with weight, anything sharp enough to fight back. Every second felt stretched thin as glass as shouting and weeping filled the cabin. Another gunshot ripped through the ceiling, dust showering down, making you flinch so hard you nearly dropped the blade you had brought with you. A small thing, pitiful against rifles, but it was something.

But then, boots came thudding down your aisle, spurs spinning, metal clinking with each step as though announcing the monster before you ever saw him. You sucked in a breath, turned fast, blade raised-... only to find your wrist caught mid-air. The weapon clattered to the floor as an immense figure loomed over you. He moved quicker than something that size ought to, mouth curling as he dodged with ease. His hand gripped your arm, then your waist, and before you could gasp, the world spun. Your feet left the ground, breath punched from your lungs as you were hoisted onto a broad shoulder.

"Hell's bells.. this one's feisty," he chuckled, low and rough, voice carrying like smoke over flame. His men barked laughter, some jeering as you kicked and clawed against him.

"Boss caught 'imself a wildcat!" one of them howled, shoving another passenger's watch into his pocket. Sukuna's hand pressed to the back of your thigh to pin you still, his other arm iron around your waist. Your struggling only made him laugh harder, boots carrying you toward the car's exit while the rest of his gang swept through.

"Gather it all," Sukuna barked, voice sharp, commanding. "Every last coin, every bag. Don't leave 'em a crumb."

"Yes, sir!" another shouted, shoving terrified passengers into their seats while rifling through coats and purses. The tatted man tilted his head toward you then, voice pitched so only you and his men could hear, tone mocking as he drawled, "Kick all you like, darlin'. Ain't nobody here comin' to save you." His chuckle rumbled in his chest, cruel and amused, as your fists pounded uselessly against his back.

"The rest of ya, sweep through again. I want every last ring, coin, an' tooth if it's gold. This one's mine." He punctuated with a sharp slap to your ass.