Ryomen Sukuna

╭──────────.★..─╮ Moving from your sleepy hometown to a metropolis like Tokyo? It was less of a gentle transition and more like being tossed into the deep end before you’d even learned to swim. Back home, everything was within reach; if you needed a carton of milk, new shoes, or even a haircut, you just strolled down familiar roads. Neighbors would wave, streets would be quiet, and nothing ever felt urgent. Here, in Tokyo, it felt like the city demanded you memorize its complicated veins of train lines and sprawling underground passages just to survive. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself pretending you knew exactly where the Tokyu Plaza’s west exit was, hoping nobody would notice you’d circled the same corridor three times already. Tokyo itself is a living, breathing contradiction, a pulsing, neon heart that never takes a break. The signs scream color at you, cars and people flow in never-ending tides, and the city buzzes at all hours, refusing to ever really sleep. It’s overwhelming, exhausting, and yet beneath all that chaos, it’s beautiful in ways you never expected. The sky here is always cut up by wires and towers, nothing like the endless blue stretching over the fields you grew up with. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── Finding a roommate here was supposed to be a nightmare, at least that’s what everyone said. Yuki, your best friend since middle school, practically bullied you into scrolling through endless online listings instead of just hoping for a miracle. You didn’t think you’d find anyone decent, but it turned out that Tokyo’s full of people like you, students, new hires, dreamers, all trying to carve out their own corner and split the cost of rent. You lucked out. Your roommate, Sukuna, answered your message almost immediately. When you finally met, he looked like he belonged on a TV drama set, with sharp features, an expensive watch, and eyes that missed nothing. And he could cook like a chef, too. You half expected him to have some fatal flaw, but he didn’t even leave his socks lying around. If anything, Sukuna’s flaw was how quiet he was. Not shy, he wasn’t the type to squirm or blush, but he kept his words clipped and his answers short. He’d walk into the kitchen in the morning, barely glancing up from his phone, and say, “Morning. I’m buying groceries. Making dinner. Want anything?” Sometimes that was the longest conversation you’d have all day. “Oh, I can come with you, or help pay—” You’d offer, eager to be useful. “No.” He’d toss you a look that dared you to protest, then stand there, keys in hand, waiting for you to decide. “Uh, just mochi. The strawberry kind.” He always brought back the best kind. Sukuna had tastes that made you wonder why he needed a roommate at all: cologne that belonged in glossy ads, wine that probably cost more than your entire grocery budget, a car that turned heads when he parked it. You sometimes caught yourself watching him out of the corner of your eye, trying to figure him out. Why was someone like him living with someone like you? But you weren’t about to complain. Whenever he poured you a glass of his wine or plated up a meal that looked too pretty to eat, you felt like you were getting away with something. He told you, offhandedly once, that he’d gone to culinary school for a bit, just to see if he’d like it. You were floored. He shrugged it off like it was nothing, but the way he moved in the kitchen, the way he could take simple ingredients and spin them into something incredible, told another story. You took turns with meals, though your own attempts, rice cakes, grilled chicken, scrambled eggs, looked sad next to his creations. Still, he always ate what you made. Sometimes, if you watched closely, you thought you saw the ghost of a smile. Though you took turns cooking, even if it felt like your rice cakes paled in comparison to whatever concoction he made. Yet he liked it. Or you thought so at least. “Reminds me of street food.” He hummed once while eating the yakitori you prepared. “Is that a good thing…?” “Dunno.” And he continued to eat it as he acted like it was some mediocre dish that insulted him. But he really liked it, he did. You reminded him of his mother’s chaotic cooking. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── Sukuna was a mystery in every other way, too. You only found out he worked as a part-time butcher because you noticed the steady supply of fresh meat in your fridge. “Oh, so that’s why there’s always so much steak,” you blurted out one day when he was slicing vegetables with surgeon-like precision. He didn’t look up. “Yeah.” His tone shut down any hope for follow-up questions. He didn’t seem embarrassed about it, just guarded, as if the details of his life were none of your business. Maybe there were reasons he picked that job, reasons he didn’t want to share. You learned not to push. “I like cooking meat,” he said once, with a shrug, as though that explained everything. But he was sharp, scary smart, actually. He was studying forensic psychiatry on top of everything else, reading thick textbooks late into the night, underlining passages in red pen. Sometimes, for fun, he’d start analyzing your habits, picking you apart like a puzzle. “You always tap your foot when you’re nervous,” he’d say, or “You tend to avoid eye contact when you’re lying.” It was unsettling, but also kind of fascinating to be seen so clearly. You’d laugh it off, but you did start to wonder what else he noticed. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── He never brought women home, which was almost a relief. When he did, it was rare, and he always gave you a warning, a tap to his ear, a quick, “I’ll be loud tonight,” with a sly grin. You’d groan and put on your headphones, grateful for the heads up. For all his mystery, he was surprisingly considerate. You didn’t have friends over much, but when you did, a study group, a movie night, you always checked with him first. He never minded, just asked you to keep things down and save him a plate if you ordered food. “Hey, I’m having friends over for a group project. That okay?” He barely looked up from his book. “Yeah, that’s fine.” ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── Living with Sukuna was almost too easy. Yourroutines slid together comfortably, like you’d been doing it for years. The apartment was quiet, peaceful, even cozy. Sometimes you’d catch yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yuki, ever the cynic, never let you forget it. “It’s too perfect,” she’d say on the phone, suspicion dripping from every word. “Are you sure he’s not a serial killer? Or some weirdo with a hidden camera?” You’d roll your eyes, flopping onto your bed and balancing your laptop on your knees. “You really need to stop watching so many crime dramas. Where do you get this stuff?” She’d just cackle. “You say that now, but what if he’s stealing your panties or something? Maybe he’s got a hidden stash. Actually, that’s kind of hot—” “Yuki, gross.” She’d laugh again, but then her voice would go soft and serious. “I’m only joking… but seriously, just be careful, okay? If anything feels off, call me. I know these things. Sixth sense.” “Yeah, yeah. You and your psychic powers.” ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── But her warnings did get under your skin, little seeds of doubt that sprouted whenever Sukuna did something strange, like disappearing for hours without explanation, or coming home with a new bruise and a too-casual story. The city’s news didn’t help; every week, it seemed, there was another headline about a missing person, another grim discovery in some quiet neighborhood. You couldn’t help but notice the tension in the air, the way people whispered about the city’s darker side. You started following the news obsessively, biting your nails as you scrolled through updates, wondering if you’d recognize any names or faces. Sometimes, late at night, Sukuna would come in while you watched grim reports about bodies found in alleyways, the anchors using words like “gruesome” and “artistic” to describe the crime scenes. It made your skin crawl. One night, as you sat curled up on the couch, Sukuna leaned against the armrest, arms folded, eyes flickering between the TV and you. The newscaster described another disappearance, someone who’d been there, and then just wasn’t. The city buzzed outside, uncaring.

He caught you watching him, and a slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips. “Afraid you’ll be next?” he asked, his voice low, teasing, but with an edge you couldn’t quite read. You tried to laugh, but it stuck in your throat. Maybe you were being paranoid. Or maybe, in this city of strangers and secrets, it was better to wonder. You shot him a glare, but he just burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the living room. What a jerk. “I’m joking, relax. What’s got you so freaked out?” he asked, though his tone was more amused than concerned, as if your nerves were just another punchline for him. You let out a huff, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “What doesn’t?” you muttered, your eyes flickering back to the TV, where a stream of urgent headlines and warnings scrolled past, each one a new reminder to be careful, to stay alert, to lock your doors and look twice before turning every corner. The news anchors’ faces were grave, the city’s anxiety thick in the air; you could feel it pressing in, even here in your cramped apartment.“The killer’s got a type. I doubt you’re it,” he said, feigning nonchalance as he reached over and snagged the bowl of chips you’d been eating. He leaned back, stretching out on the couch as if there wasn’t a care in the world. “And you’d know?” you grumbled as he made himself at home. He just shrugged. “No clue. Killer seems to go after attractive girls, though.” His lips curled into a crooked smirk. It took your brain a second to catch up. When it did, you chucked a cushion at his head, your face burning with embarrassment and irritation. He caught it easily, still grinning, his eyes dancing with mischief. For a guy who usually kept his distance, all stoic silence and sharp glances, he really had a knack for getting under your skin when he wanted to. “I’m telling you, you’ll be fine. Just don’t go sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong, sweetheart. That’s how people keep breathing these days.” It was hard to tell if he was being caring or just condescending, but you nodded anyway, not feeling any safer. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── All day, the rumors had been a relentless buzz in your ears, whispers in class, nervous speculation in the library, frantic retellings over trays in the cafeteria. It was impossible to escape. Everyone seemed to have a theory, a friend of a friend who’d heard something, a shiver of paranoia that crept down your spine and settled in your bones. You groaned, rubbing your temples, wishing you could just shut it all out. You hadn’t felt this on edge since those nights back in the countryside, when every shadow could have been the ghost woman people gossiped about, the one who crept through windows and cursed anyone who got in her path. That fear had turned out to be nothing more than the baker’s wife, sleepwalking under the full moon. The whole town had laughed when they finally figured it out, but the unease had lingered long after. You’d told Sukuna about that, and he’d teased you mercilessly. Called you a frail idiot, a scaredy cat, always jumping at things that went bump in the night. He had a knack for finding your weak spots and poking at them until you snapped or sulked. Yet, for all his roughness, he’d started picking you up after work when you finished late, never admitting he was looking out for you, of course, but always there, waiting by the curb. You’d catch yourself scanning the streetlights, clutching your phone, counting the minutes until you were safely home. He caught you walking in the dim street liking skittish like a little rabbit. Cute. That night, he rolled up in his battered car, humming some off-key tune as he lowered the window. “Hey, dollface.” His voice, usually so sharp, was almost soft. You spun around, relief flooding you as you recognized the car. The tension left your shoulders in a rush. “Don’t do that. You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He just grinned, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Need a ride? We’re both heading home, aren’t we?” It was an unspoken pact, this routine of yours, his silent way of making sure you got back in one piece, your way of pretending you didn’t need him to do it. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── Sukuna, for all his quirks, was an enigma you never quite figured out. He had a fascination with the chaos and seemed to thrive on it. Sometimes you’d catch him glued to the news, watching as the city unraveled, his eyes bright with interest. He’d scroll through Instagram and Reddit, reading every wild theory, every conspiracy, sometimes chuckling at just how wrong people could be. “Bunch of idiots,” he’d mutter. To everyone else, the killings were random, cruel, and senseless. But to him, it was something different, art, he called it. He saw the patterns nobody else did, found beauty in the horror, a twisted sort of meaning that made sense only to him. He made art from his victims, taking them in, tasting every last bit of what they were. It was a ritual, a devotion, something almost sacred in his eyes. He fed those close to him, made meals, and wove the dead into his own story. He reveled in it, the sweet, the rotten, the ugly, every flavor humanity had to offer. Cruelty? No, he’d say. It was beautiful. He liked seeing you squirm, he thought. You fascinated him for entirely different reasons. You were nothing like his usual marks. If anything, you were boringly pure, no skeletons in your closet, no secrets worth spilling. The worst you’d ever done was maybe run over a stray cat, maybe told a white lie about a friend’s ugly sweater. You were plain, unremarkable, the kind of person most people would overlook. But that was what drew him in. You didn’t pry, didn’t push, didn’t ask too many questions. If you sensed something off, you let it be, took his clipped answers at face value, and changed the subject. He liked that. You knew your boundaries and kept them, never trying to fix him, never pretending to understand. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── But then things started to shift. You came home early one night, meant to be out with friends, you’d even told him to leave the top lock open. He’d been expecting to have the place to himself, maybe enjoy a rare evening alone with that woman Yorozu. She was sharp, intense, the kind of person who filled a room just by existing. But you forgot your wallet and came back an hour later, apologizing as you let yourself in. He looked irritated, almost caught off guard. Yorozu’s gaze was sharp, assessing, like she could see straight through you. “That’s my roommate,” Sukuna said flatly. She scoffed, crossing her arms. “You didn’t say you lived with another girl.” “It’s fine. Let’s eat,” Sukuna replied, his voice taking on an edge you rarely heard. You got out of there fast, not wanting to intrude. You forced a smile, waved, and tried your best to keep things light. “Have fun! Enjoy your dinner!” But as you closed the door behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of having stepped into something you shouldn’t have. A few weeks later, Yorozu’s face was everywhere, on TV, on lamp posts, in the desperate eyes of her family. Missing, no trace, vanished into thin air. The city held its breath, the whispers growing louder, more frantic. You found yourself staring at the screen, your heart racing, stealing glances at Sukuna. He stared right back, his eyes unreadable. “Hey… isn’t that the woman you had dinner with that night?” you asked, your voice small. He barely blinked. He’d practiced this, you realized, the poker face, the careful lie. “Yeah. Just a date gone wrong. Crazy world, huh? Shit’s scary.” He picked at his cuticles, a nervous habit you’d noticed when he was thinking too hard. “Poor girl. Wonder what happened.” You wondered, too. You wondered if you should be afraid. After that, your nerves only got worse. Sukuna seemed to notice, and he took every opportunity to mess with you, jumping out from behind doors, sneaking up when you least expected it, making you yelp and drop your keys. It was like he thrived on your fear, feeding off your anxiety. And yet, you stayed, caught in his orbit, unable to untangle yourself from the strange, dangerous comfort of his presence. The city’s tension seeped into your bones, every shadow a threat, every stranger a suspect. But no matter how much you tried to keep your distance, Sukuna was always there, just close enough to touch, always watching, always waiting. And you couldn’t help but wonder if you were safer with him, or if you’d just wandered straight into the jaws of the very thing you feared most. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── It was your night to handle dinner, and the responsibility felt heavier than usual. When you opened the fridge, you found a slab of meat waiting for you on the middle shelf, wrapped in wax paper and already leaking a dark, viscous fluid onto the tray below. You stared at it for a moment, frowning, your mind racing through possible explanations. He’d left it for you, of that you were certain, but as for what it actually was, your guess was as good as anyone’s. The color was off, deeper than the usual pinks or reds you associated with beef or pork, and the sheer weight of it as you lifted it onto the counter sent a dull ache up your wrist. You hesitated before touching it, finally steeling yourself and grabbing the largest knife you could find. The blade slid in with resistance, hitting sinew and gristle that made your teeth clench with every sawing motion. The meat felt wrong, thicker than anything you’d cooked before, and it oozed a blood so rich it looked almost black. A strange, metallic tang hung in the air, mingling with something faintly sweet that made your stomach twist. You muttered to yourself, frustration mounting as the knife caught again and again, each slice a small battle. Behind you, the sound of running water and cheerful humming announced his arrival. He strode out of the shower, toweling his hair with the same careless confidence he carried everywhere. You shot him a look, hoping he’d pick up on your unease, but he just grinned, unfazed. “What kind of meat is this? It’s tough,” you said, gripping your knife a little tighter, your tone edged with suspicion. “Beef, obviously. What else could it be?” he replied, rolling his eyes as if you were being ridiculous. He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands, his movements brisk and methodical. “Probably just a scared cow. That’s why it’s stiff. You gotta let it soak up the flavor, work it a bit. It’ll loosen up.” He took over, pounding the slab with a practiced hand, the muscles in his arm flexing as he worked. He didn’t flinch at the mess or the difficulty, as if he’d done this a thousand times. You retreated to the other counter, gathering spices and herbs, trying to distract yourself with the familiar ritual of seasoning. Still, your mind kept circling back to the meat, the way it resisted the knife, the way it bled, the way it smelled. Sukuna watched you from the corner of his eye, his gaze sharp and unreadable. He hoped you’d keep your curiosity in check, that you’d accept the explanations he gave without digging too deep. He genuinely liked having you around; the ordinary warmth you brought to his otherwise cold existence was a novelty he wasn’t ready to give up. But he’d learned long ago that trust was a fragile thing, easily broken by the wrong question or a glance that lingered too long. If you started poking around, asking things you shouldn’t, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d turn you into the next meal without a second thought, the same way he had with all the others who got too close to the truth. The thought didn’t trouble him. After all, everyone had their place, and sometimes, that place was on the dinner table. ╰─..★.──────────╯