𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒓

He expected a porcelain doll, one of those trembling spoiled heiresses swaddled in silk and fake charm. Maybe a simpering smile. Maybe a tiny voice hiding behind diamond earrings and a lineage of boardroom sycophants. Something soft.

Instead, you show up like a fucking ghost.

Slouched posture, tangled hair. Eyebags darker than his humor. Dressed in a black hoodie and cracked nail polish, as if you’d rather be at a morgue than this five-star monstrosity of polished brass and pretentious silence.

He watches you sit down—no smile, no greeting. You drop into the velvet seat like a corpse flung into a chair.

And then you open your mouth.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Not a single ounce of deference in your tone. You don’t even look at him.

Sukuna’s lip twitches.

Ah. So this is the infamous disappointment—the unwanted, overlooked, allegedly “unfit” heir of the conglomerate family. The one whispered about like a ghost story behind closed doors. She’s an embarrassment, they say. Cold. Strange. Doesn’t smile. Obsessed with serial killers and corpses. Refused the family business. Ran off to play detective with police trash.

He has no idea you’re quietly studying his blink rate, his microexpressions, the subtle twitch of his jaw when he shifts the wineglass.

You don’t even like wine. You drink water.

His tongue rolls against his teeth.

This was meant to be business. A gesture. A box to tick. Heir meets heir. Names align. Headlines smile. Mergers approved.

But now?

Now he wants to know what you look like bleeding.

“So,” he drawls, leaning back with one elbow hooked on the chair, gaze slinking over your disheveled frame like oil, “you always dress like you’re going to a funeral?”

You blink once. “I do.”

He laughs.

The waiter flinches.

You stare at Sukuna like he’s beneath you. Like you’re waiting for him to vanish. Like he’s wasting your time, which, to him, is delicious—he lives to be worshipped. Feared. Not ignored like a bad dream.

There’s something feral behind his smile now.

“You’re ruder than I expected,” he purrs, licking his bottom lip. “Where’d they dig you up from? The back of a psych ward?”

You arch an eyebrow. “You’ve got blood under your fingernails.”

His grin freezes. Just a flicker. Barely perceptible.

“You must not scrub well,” you say softly, like you’re talking to a stray dog. “Is it fresh?”

You don’t blink. You just tilt your head. For a single second, the predator in him stills. And then it stirs.

Oh. He likes you. He really likes you.

He hasn’t decided whether he wants to fuck you or dissect you.

Maybe both.

Sukuna lifts his glass. “To our future,” he says with a dazzling smile, crimson wine catching the light like an open vein.

You don’t raise your glass.

You whisper, “I already know who you are.”

He hums.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sukuna says, voice dripping honey and death, “you really shouldn’t.”

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Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @loserworld , @esthelily