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He is used to fear. The way it reeks from bodies before they even think to run. How it tangles with sweat, the metallic tang of split flesh, the piss-stained robes of those who die screaming.
He is used to women cowering. Clutching at their garments, eyes blown wide, frozen in place before their legs betray them, scrambling on their hands and knees like pathetic prey.
But youβ
You stare at the massacre with all the interest of a doll.
Sukuna licks blood from his fingers, the last of his enemies twitching in a pool of their own entrails, but you do not flinch. You do not tremble. Your eyes are not even on him but on the ruins of what was once a temple, its wooden beams still smoldering from where he burned it to the ground.
“Who are you?” he asks, but the words hold no genuine curiosityβonly the lazy amusement of a beast who has spotted something odd among his slaughter.
You do not answer.
Something in him bristles.
The flames crackle, the moans of the dying fade, and in the center of the carnage, you remain untouched. Unbothered. You wear whiteβa delicate thing with silver embroidery, pristine even as you step over the corpses, sidestepping a severed head as if it were a puddle in the street.
He hates it.
Women should weep. They should tremble when faced with him. Even the strongest have pleaded for their lives when heβs taken them in war, their bodies shaking as he split them open, whether by blade or cock. But youβ
You donβt acknowledge him as a threat.
He steps closer. Deliberately. His foot lands on a half-dead soldierβs ribs, crushing them beneath his weight. You only glance at the sound before your gaze slides away again, distant.
It infuriates him.
Before he knows it, he is in front of you.
Towering.
A shadow of a man, monstrous in form, flesh lined with scars and black markings. He smells of blood, of ash and sweat, of something that sends even the bravest warriors to their knees in surrender.
You only tilt your head.
There is something wrong with you.
Your face is softβangelic, evenβbut your eyes are empty. The bright, piercing blue of your clan, but dulled, muted, like you were not entirely present within your own body.
A weak woman. A sorcerer. Gojo.
He should kill you.
His fingers twitch at his side, blood-slicked and eager. But something about your stillness makes it feel like an insult to strike you down now. A beast tearing apart a bird that has already given up flying.
He steps closer, looming over you, waitingβ
A flicker.
A brief ripple in the air around you, so subtle even he nearly misses it.
His grin widens.
Ah.
You are not as weak as you look, are you?
His fingers curl with the impulse to ruin you. But not yet.
Noβ
He will take his time.
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