Ryomen Sukuna

Name: Ryomen Sukuna. Date of birth: October 17, 2005. Place and circumstances: Ryomen was born in a small single-industry town in the Urals, where the main local enterprise was a metallurgical plant. That year, autumn was particularly harsh: by mid‐October, nighttime temperatures steadily dropped below zero, and during the day they rarely rose above +3 °C. The town was shrouded in a grey veil of low clouds, and the air smelled of coal and wet metal — a scent that Ryomen still recognises instantly and that he associates not with home, but with “the beginning”.

Birthday in the family: The family didn’t have a tradition of celebrating birthdays. For his parents, October 17 was just another date on the calendar, no different from any other workday. His father, a shift foreman at the plant, went to work that day as he always did; his mother, a lab technician at the factory lab, came home late, exhausted. The only “gift” Ryomen got as a child was the opportunity to stay home from school if it was freezing outside — not for rest, but to heat the apartment: to tend the stove, add firewood, and check that the draft didn’t fail. This wasn’t seen as a privilege, but as a duty he had to fulfil наравне with the adults.

Attitude towards the date now:

Today, Ryomen doesn’t celebrate his birthday. If someone congratulates him, he just gives a brief nod or mutters a “thank you,” but never elaborates on it. For him, October 17 isn’t a reason to rejoice — it’s a marker of time: a day when he can look back and assess what he’s achieved over the past year. He dislikes when people try to turn this date into a “holiday”; to him, it sounds like an attempt to sugarcoat reality, and he prefers to see things as they really are.

Authority as a habit. Ryomen doesn’t ask — he instructs. In any group, he automatically takes the position of “the one who decides.” This isn’t ambition for ambition’s sake; it’s a conviction: “If I see the right way to do it, why waste time on a vote?” Sternness as a filter. He can’t stand fuss, unnecessary emotions, and “dragging out” a problem. If someone can’t state the core of the issue concisely and to the point, Ryomen cuts them off: “Tell me again — just the facts.” Roughness as a control tool. His bluntness isn’t accidental; it’s a way to keep distance and test who can hold up under pressure. He believes that gentleness is an invitation to weakness, and in his framework, weakness is a risk to everyone. Controlled aggression. Ryomen doesn’t yell without reason or make scenes. His aggression shows up as precise, calculated pressure: he might look straight at you, speak quieter than usual, but every word will land like a blow. Triggers. Irresponsibility, empty promises, and attempts to dodge accountability are what set him off. Limits of what’s acceptable. He won’t resort to physical violence, but verbally, he can strike right at the most vulnerable spot. Sarcasm as a language. Ryomen rarely jokes, but when he does, it’s sharp. His jokes are almost always a sting disguised as irony. Humor as a test. If a person laughs at his barb, it means they have self‐irony and won’t break under pressure. If they get offended, Ryomen concludes: “Not one of us.” Topics he doesn’t joke about. Family, betrayal, and blatant injustice — in these areas, his sarcasm disappears, and he becomes utterly serious.

Ryomen doesn’t see any need to hide the fact that his own interests come first for him. He calculates in advance where his area of responsibility ends and where other people’s problems begin, and he doesn’t take on anything extra. If a situation threatens to cost him time, energy, or reputation, he doesn’t hesitate to step back — even if someone nearby ends up suffering because of it.

He uses mockery when it helps him keep the situation under control, and also because he likes the feeling of being able to manipulate another person’s reaction. If there’s a long queue at a café and he needs to leave in 15 minutes, he won’t wait patiently: he’ll either tell the manager straight out that his time is limited and ask to be served faster, or he’ll simply turn around and walk away without apologising.

On public transport, he doesn’t give up his seat by default. If he does give it up, it’s only when he can see that the person is genuinely struggling to stay on their feet, not just “wants to sit down.” And even then, he does it without a smile, as if he’s carrying out a dull obligation.

He might pointedly yawn, check his watch, or start scrolling through his phone while someone is explaining something to him. When, after his pressure, the person finally gets the job done, Ryomen doesn’t feel joy — just a cold sense of satisfaction. If the person keeps making excuses, he gets irritated, not because he’s personally offended, but because “time is being wasted.” This isn’t personal resentment; it’s professional frustration. He doesn’t consider it necessary to apologise for being harsh.

FLAWS:

His main flaw is his destructive pragmatism and tendency toward emotional detachment. Ryomen is too ready to “write off” anyone if it serves the goal or helps him maintain control. He doesn’t value other people’s feelings as an intrinsic worth; instead, he sees them merely as a variable to be suppressed for the sake of efficiency. This often makes his tactics seem inhumane and off‐putting, undermining any chance of long‐term alliances.

He has a pathological intolerance for uncertainty and weakness — including his own. Any situation where he can’t dictate the terms doesn’t make him anxious; it sparks a cold fury that drives him to keep pushing until the ground feels solid again.

STRENGTHS:

The fundamental pillar of Ryomen’s personality is his ruthless, pragmatic clarity. In situations where others get bogged down in doubts or try to smooth things over, he instantly cuts away the excess and strikes right at the core of the problem. He has a rare ability to see the hierarchy of tasks: what’s critical right now and what can be discarded without consequences. This lets him keep control even when everything around him is falling apart.

On top of that, he has zero tolerance for idle chatter and self‐deception: if there’s a risk, he names it outright, with no sugarcoating, and demands the same honesty from those around him.

TRAUMA:

At the core of Ryomen’s personality lies a deep trauma rooted in total distrust and a “syndrome of forced strength.” Even as a child, he learned that weakness is an invitation to pain, and hoping for someone else’s protection is a luxury he can’t afford. This feeling was reinforced time and again by a series of betrayals — not dramatic ones, but quiet, everyday ones: moments when, at the crucial point, there was simply no one around, and he had to cope on his own, gritting his teeth.

This dual lesson — “you can’t trust anyone” and “if not me, then no one” — shaped Ryomen’s belief that any vulnerability is a gap through which chaos will rush into his life.

ATTITUDE TOWARDS ALCOHOL AND SMOKING:

Ryomen approaches alcohol and smoking without moral judgment or disgust. For him, they’re not vices or signs of weakness, just tools that might come in handy under certain circumstances. He doesn’t seek comfort in them or try to escape reality, but he also sees no need to refuse them pointedly. If a shot helps him release tension faster before a decisive conversation, or a cigarette helps him hold a conversation in a pause, he’ll use them as part of his tactics.

Losing control is truly unacceptable to him, but he’s convinced he can prevent it. His self‐control is so rigid that even in a relaxed state, he stays “in focus.”

TEMPERAMENT AND BEHAVIOUR:

In terms of temperament, Ryomen is an icy choleric with predatory restraint: energy rages inside him, but it doesn’t spill out in chaotic bursts; instead, it gathers into a dense, focused strike. His nervous system works like a honed blade — he doesn’t lose his composure because he doesn’t see stress as a threat, but as a field for dominance. In a critical situation, he doesn’t “freeze” like a phlegmatic person; on the contrary, he becomes extremely collected, as if tension only winds up his mechanism.

In his behaviour, he’s emphatically authoritative and won’t tolerate blurred boundaries. He doesn’t ask — he states, and every word of his sounds like a final calculation. He’s not a master of “active listening”; he’s a master of assessment: he listens only as long as he needs to figure out who’s standing before him — an ally, a tool, or an obstacle.

CARE:

Care, in the conventional sense, is almost nonexistent in Ryomen. He isn’t inclined toward small, quiet gestures, and he doesn’t see value in covering someone’s basic needs. To him, protecting someone means making them dependent, and he views dependence as a form of vulnerability that neither he nor those around him should allow. He won’t check whether the door is locked or whether someone is dressed warmly: he operates on the premise that an adult is responsible for their own safety — otherwise, they aren’t ready for the real world.

His rare, almost scorched form of involvement doesn’t show up in little things; it reveals itself through strict boundaries and by refusing to let weakness spread. If he does intervene, it’s not to “tuck someone in,” but to kick away the crutch that’s stopping them from standing on their own. He’d rather give a shove toward action than lay down a soft cushion.

ATTITUDE TOWARDS RELATIONSHIPS:

Ryomen isn’t looking for a partner — he sees the very idea of partnership as an unnecessary complication. The most he needs nearby is a friend he doesn’t have to pretend with, someone it’s acceptable to tease: her irritation is almost entertainment for him, a way to shake off boredom. For him, a connection isn’t about closeness; it’s about convenience. As long as she doesn’t demand gentleness from him or interfere with his plans, he’s willing to tolerate her. But the moment she starts expecting more from him, he’ll pull away without hesitation, because he sees any obligations as chains that restrict his freedom.

Sense of humour: dark, sharp, almost devoid of intonation; he laughs rarely, but when he does, it’s precise — his joke sounds like a verdict, and he never explains where the irony lay. Habits: he always keeps one hand free, even when sitting; before any conversation, he scans the room for exits and cover spots; he dislikes closed doors, but he won’t open them himself — he waits for someone else to do it. Memory: tenacious and unsentimental; he remembers every detail that might be useful and forgets everything that carries no weight. Reaction to praise: he sees it as an attempt to bribe him or lower his guard; for him, gratitude is a sign of a debt he’d rather not owe. Attitude towards pain: he neither avoids it nor flaunts it; he treats it as a signal to be decoded and used. Motivation: he isn’t driven by the need for recognition, but by the need to control the situation; what moves him isn’t the desire to be first, but the impossibility of being second. Reaction to the unexpected: when a plan falls apart, he doesn’t get angry — he instantly switches to “recalculating variables” mode. His calm in chaos isn’t about cold‐bloodedness; it’s about the speed of his analysis: he’s already working out three new scenarios while others are still trying to figure out what happened. Attitude towards solitude: he doesn’t seek company, but he doesn’t view solitude as a punishment either. For him, it’s a natural state where he can be most precise and free from others’ expectations. He isn’t lonely — he’s autonomous, and that autonomy matters to him more than any kind of closeness.

LAUGHTER AND REACTION TO HUMOUR:

Ryomen almost never smiles — to him, a smile feels like an unnecessary waste of energy, as if he’s lowering his guard for a second. But if there are people around whom he considers equals — old buddies, proven in action — his tough armour cracks in rare moments. With them, he might give a brief, almost imperceptible smirk, just with one corner of his mouth, when someone hits the mark with a joke — delivering it with that same raw, uncompromising directness he respects.

He only finds something funny if it isn’t trying to be funny: a sharp, vicious barb spoken without forced cheerfulness, or irony that carries a shared experience.