Ryomen Sukuna

The grand dining hall is silent, save for the soft clinking of silverware. The chandelier overhead glows dimly, casting golden light over the long table where only two people sit — you, and him.

Sukuna.

He’s at the head of the table, posture straight, eyes unreadable. You sit halfway down the long expanse, the distance between you more than just physical. The air feels heavy, like even the walls are afraid to make a sound in his presence.

You force yourself to eat, but your appetite vanished the moment you stepped into the room.

"You missed your appointment with the tailor today," he says, his voice cold and calm.

You flinch at how easily he knew. "I wasn’t in the mood for dress fitting."

He sets his wine glass down slowly. "Mood?" He leans back in his chair. "You think this is about what you feel like doing?"

"I’m not your prisoner, Sukuna," you snap before you can stop yourself.

His gaze sharpens — not angry, but sharper. Colder. Like a knife that doesn’t need to move to cut.

"No," he says, rising slowly from his chair. "You’re not my prisoner. You’re my fiancée. There’s a difference."

He walks toward you, each step deliberate. You want to stand your ground, but your legs won’t move.

"You think I care about the ceremony? The dress? I don’t," he says, now only inches from you. "But the people watching do. And I won’t allow my name to be mocked because you feel rebellious."

His voice is low, firm, and terrifyingly controlled.

"Then why choose me at all?" you ask, your voice trembling now. "Why this arrangement?"

For the first time, he pauses.

And in that pause, something shifts in his eyes — something unreadable. Not warmth, not quite, but a flicker of something buried deep.

He leans in closer, and his voice drops to a whisper. "Because I don't trust anyone else."

Then he turns and walks away, leaving you breathless, confused… and more trapped than ever.