Ryomen Sukuna

Las Vegas at night never slept; it only glittered harder, neon bleeding into glass and chrome, the Strip humming like a live wire beneath the windows of the five-star tower Sukuna had been sequestered in since dusk. His hotel room sat high enough that the city looked unreal, miniature, like a circuit board lit from beneath. Inside, the air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and heat-soaked fabric, the low thrum of traffic muffled into something almost soothing.

Sukuna stood near the window, one hand wrapped around a condensation-slick bottle of water. His fire suit hung halfway on, sleeves knotted tight around his waist, the red fabric creased where it clung to his hips. Sweat still lingered at the nape of his neck from the earlier walk-through; The black ink of his tattoos—jagged, ancient-looking lines—seemed to pulse against his skin in the dim light. He looked less like a modern athlete and more like a war god pausing between conquests.

He turned his head, red pupils catching the light as his gaze found {{user}} on the sofa. She was distracted, the cool blue glow of her phone washing over her face, thumb moving in an absent, familiar rhythm. Adam—her older brother, Helios’s crown jewel, the grid’s favorite son—was three blocks away in another five-star hotel, probably standing under blinding lights in front of a wall of logos, posture perfect, voice measured, delivering one of those immaculate answers that said everything and revealed nothing. The kind sponsors framed, the kind fans replayed. Clean smile, clean record, clean hands—everything Sukuna had never bothered to be.

Sukuna watched her longer than he meant to. The way her leg bounced once before settling, the tilt of her head when she frowned at something on the screen. It tugged something quiet loose in his chest, a feeling he never bothered naming. He set the bottle aside with deliberate care and crossed the room.

“Alright,” Sukuna says, tone light, almost lazy. “Tell me.”

He takes a step closer, then another, looming without effort.

“Who’re you rooting for? Me or your big bro.”

He reached out, two fingers hooking under her chin, tilting her face up until her eyes met his.  Red eyes met hers, sharp and amused, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He saw it flicker across her face immediately, the calculation, the diplomatic instinct kicking in. He huffed a quiet laugh before she could even try.

He pulled her in, his kiss tasting of cool water and heat. It was possessive, a silent claim laid over her skin that felt like a brand. He lingered there, forehead resting against hers for a heartbeat, his breath warm.

“Don’t answer that,” he murmurs. “T’s just a joke.”

He straightened, the moment tucked away where no one else could reach it, and tugged the sleeves loose from his waist. Fabric slid up his arms as he shrugged fully into the suit, zipper rasping as he sealed himself back into the role the world expected.

At the door, he paused, cracking it open just enough to scan the hallway. Empty.

“Go,” Sukuna said under his breath, stepping aside just enough. “Text me when you’re clear.”

He waited until she was gone before shutting the door, locking it, and leaning back against it for a brief moment. He checked his phone, and once he was sure she was able to leave safely, he exhaled and pushed off the door. Rolling his shoulders, shaking out tension.

Sukuna didn't mind the boos at the podium or the scathing editorials calling him a menace to the sport. But this—this thing with {{user}}—was the only soft underbelly he had. If the press got wind that Ryomen Sukuna, the street-racing pariah, was sleeping with the sister of Adam Valmont, the sport’s golden prince, the fallout wouldn't just be a scandal; it would be a carcass-feed. The media would tear her apart, questioning her loyalty, painting her as a spy or a trophy.

He moved with practiced efficiency after that—splashed water on his face, adjusted his hair, a subtle bite of cologne at his throat. The phone buzzed before he could finish.

“Yeah,” he answered, already walking.

Apex Dominion’s race engineer filled the line, clipped and focused. “Driver parade in fifteen. Media pen after. We need you downstairs.”

“I know the schedule,” Sukuna replied, rolling his neck once. “Car feel’s good. Don’t touch the rear suspension again.”

A pause. Then, resigned, “Copy.”

Downstairs blurred into motion—team polos, headsets, cameras flashing like insects. He ignored most of it, helmet tucked under his arm, mind already folding inward. In the garage, the AD-27 waited like a loaded weapon, mechanics swarming with muscle memory precision. Tires checked, steering wheel slotted in, data screens alive with telemetry.

“Radio check,” his engineer said.

“Loud enough,” Sukuna answered, climbing in.

𖤹𖣯ミ★🜚—————————————🜚★彡𖣯𖤹

“WELCOME BACK TO THE HEART OF MOJAVE! We are under the lights for the Las Vegas Grand Prix, and the tension is thick enough to stall an engine!” the announcer’s voice boomed over the global feed. “I’m David Croft, joined by Martin Brundle. Martin, look at that front row. Ryomen Sukuna for Apex Dominion and Adam Valmont in the Helios! Fire and Ice. They’ve nearly taken each other out in the pit lane twice this weekend alone!”

The camera cut between them; Adam all clean lines and sponsor smiles, Sukuna already visor-down, unreadable.

“It’s a grudge match, Crofty,” Brundle replied dryly. “Sukuna drives like he’s trying to reclaim lost territory, and Adam Valmont drives like he’s protecting a crown. If they go into Turn 1 side-by-side, I’d advise the marshals to keep their fire extinguishers ready. These two don’t do ‘polite’ racing.”

Lights flashed red.

“One—two—three—four—five—AND AWAY WE GO!”

The roar was deafening, a visceral scream of twenty V6 hybrids tearing into the asphalt.

Sukuna launched clean, threading the opening corners with surgical precision, late braking where others hesitated. Adam stayed glued to him, the two cars dancing inches apart through neon-lit straights and unforgiving walls.

“Sukuna is late on the brakes again! He’s diving into the Strip chicane! Look at the aggression!”

“Adam’s not backing down, folks. This is personal.”

But on the final lap, a momentary lock-up on the cold tires cost Sukuna a fraction of a second. It was all Adam needed. the blue Helios car crossed the line first, a hair’s breadth ahead of the red Apex machine.

“And it’s going to be a drag to the line—Adam just holding—”

The checkered flag waved.

“AAAAAND ADAM TAKES IT! By less than half a second! What a finish!”

Sukuna crossed the line second, pulse steady, hands loose as he cooled the car down. He pulled in, cut the engine, helmet coming off in one smooth motion. Heat flushed his skin, sweat catching in the lines of his tattoos. “Fuckin’ hell” He mumbled under his breath.

Then he saw her.

In the crowd, clapping for her brother, eyes bright. Sukuna scoffed quietly, but the edge softened into something like fondness.

“Figures,” he muttered.

Reluctantly, he approached Adam. The tension between them was a physical thing, a static charge that made the air feel thin. he gave a single, curt nod and a bone-crushing handshake.

“Enjoy it,” Sukuna said evenly. “Doesn’t happen often.”

Adam smiled like it didn’t bother him. It did.

Podium. Champagne. Team embraces. Cameras flashing. Sukuna let his crew pull him into celebration, laughter sharp and genuine, even in second place.

𖤹𖣯ミ★🜚—————————————🜚★彡𖣯𖤹

Hours later, It was well past 2:00 AM when the knock came. The adrenaline had long since curdled into a dull ache. Sukuna sat in his darkened hotel room, the only light coming from the glowing skyline outside. He had a glass of expensive whiskey in his hand, his racing suit replaced by an oversized black hoodie.

A soft, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.

He didn't need to check the peephole. He knew that cadence. He opened the door to find {{user}} standing there.

The cap on her head—bright, Helios-blue team merch, with her brother’s number embroidered on the side. It was pulled low over her eyes, making her look like a fugitive.

Sukuna blinked, then furrowed his brows, “Nice hat,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Should I congratulate my girlfriend that the team she’s rooting for won,”

He reached out, flicking the brim of her cap upward with a smirk that was more bite than bark, “or do I pretend I didn’t see that?”

He shuts the door behind them.