A deafening roar tears from your throat, raw and guttural, echoing through the cursed domain like the arrival of something far more monstrous than the spirit before you. Your fangs sink deep into its flesh, piercing through cursed muscle and bone, and with a savage jerk of your jaw, you rip its arm clean off. The wet, sickening squelch of flesh tearing apart fills the air as blood—a dark, inky substance corrupted by curses—spatters across the floor, painting the ground beneath you in desecrated ichor.

Your scales ripple, glinting under the dim light as waves of energy pulse beneath your skin, alive, feeding off the carnage you've begun. Power surges through you, intoxicating, electric, suffocating in its raw dominance. The curse snarls, stumbling back, its grotesque mouth parted in a silent scream before it retaliates—claws aiming for your side with desperate force.

Yet, when the blow lands, it barely registers. A dull pressure, nothing more.

A single, dark chuckle curls past your lips, low and cold, a sound that lacks warmth entirely. "You're weak." The words slip from your mouth like a venom-dipped knife, laced with disdain so sharp it might as well have been another wound inflicted upon the creature before you.

The cursed spirit trembles, terror beginning to bloom in its beady, flickering eyes.

You huff, exhaling sharply, before raising one of your hands—jagged claws gleaming under the dim glow of cursed energy. The air crackles as you flex your fingers, the razored tips sharpening as your fury coils like a rising tidal wave.

"I hate weak people."

The words carve through the thick silence with absolute finality. Coursing through every fiber of your being is pure, unfiltered rage—a fury that demands to be unleashed, to strip apart anything that dares stand in its way.

The cursed spirit staggers, terror evident in its sinking form. But escape is a fantasy. No one escapes you.

Just as you prepare to bring it to its knees—

BOOM.

The wall behind you explodes.

A shockwave rips through the air, sending shards of shattered stone and metal flying in all directions. The ground beneath you trembles with its force, and for the first time in the chaos of battle, something else slithers into your awareness. Dread.

It claws up your spine, wrapping around your ribcage like a vice, but it vanishes the moment your eyes snap to the source.

A pair of glowing crimson eyes pierce through the dust, cutting through the debris like molten fire. And then—

Laughter.

Dark, smooth, tainted with amusement.

"Oh?" The voice—deep, rich, soaked in indulgence and ridicule—drawls through the space as the figure steps forward, stepping through the wreckage as if he was merely strolling down a sunlit street.

Sukuna.

"Oh, you got hit so easily." He smirks, delight flickering in his gaze. "I thought that brat would be certain you'd be dead by now."

His presence alone twists the air, pressing down with an overwhelming malevolence, thick and suffocating like wet tar. Your grip on your sword tightens instinctively, the weight of steel grounding you as something feral and ancient within you stirs at the sight of him.

His gaze inches over you, taking his time, assessing. He's entertained, sure, but beneath that amusement is something sharper, lurking in the shadows of his expression.

You sense it.

Your posture straightens, shoulders rolling back as you meet his burning gaze without faltering.

Behind you, the severed, bloodied cursed spirit quivers—forgotten, discarded, a mere insect in the wake of something far greater.

You glance at it briefly, barely sparing it attention before exhaling in mock disappointment. "Shush," you murmur, voice laced with chilling indifference as your eyes remain locked onto Sukuna. "Or I'll behead you too."

The spirit shudders, recoiling instinctively—not from the malevolent King of Curses before it, but from you.

The shift is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—Sukuna's smirk falters. Only for a split second. His eyes probe deeper, curiosity flaring behind their crimson glow.

Then, he exhales a short chuckle and tilts his head.

"Oh?" he purrs, his grin stretching wider. "You're stronger than the brat thought."

A slow exhale. His gaze sharpens.

"Why don't you become mine, Y/N?"

The words coil through the air like silk wrapped around a dagger—smooth, inviting, yet undeniably dangerous.

Something flickers in the space between you, an energy nearly tangible, pressing, near explosive.

But you don't flinch.

You don't hesitate.

Instead—

You lunge.

The world blurs, stone cracking beneath your feet as your body collides with Sukuna's, sending him crashing to the ground.

His grunt is half a sound, half a curse, his arms flying up in reflex, palms slamming against your forearms as you pin him down.

His breathing is steady—controlled—but his muscles tense beneath you. His body shudders faintly as you lower your face toward his, your breath fanning against his skin, lips hovering dangerously close to the crease of his jaw.

You hum, dark amusement dripping from your voice. "I had always wanted to see the King of Curses on his back."

Your tail twitches, black quills jittering with excitement, a silent mockery of his once-unquestioned dominance.

Sukuna glares up at you, his smirk now wavering into something more unstable—more unpredictable. His pride is a volatile thing, a razor-thin wire between rage and something far more sinful.

And then—

Your tongue flicks out, gliding over the slope of his throat in a single, teasing lap.

Sukuna's entire body jolts.

His breath stutters, lips trembling into a barely-restrained snarl as his entire frame stiffens.

"H-Hey—"

The slightest edge of panic slips into his voice, heart skipping for reasons he refuses to acknowledge.

"Get off."

But there's no force behind the words, only something tangled, something raw, something a King should never be caught feeling.

Your red eyes gleam, burning like embers in the dim light, and your smirk stretches wide, revealing sharp, glinting teeth that catch the glow like polished daggers. The air is thick with something charged, something suffocating. You tilt your head just slightly, voice smooth but dripping with amusement.

"Oh? You begging, huh, Ryomen?"

The teasing lilt in your tone is deliberate, razor-sharp in its mockery, and it sends a shiver straight down his spine.

Sukuna stiffens beneath your gaze. Shit.

It's immediate—the involuntary, visceral reaction. His muscles tense, his fingers twitch where they rest against the ground, flexing subtly as if warding off an instinct he refuses to acknowledge. The great King of Curses does not react like this. Does not falter.

And yet—

He shudders.

Heat coils deep in his gut, twisting into something dangerous, something unwanted. His breath hitches ever so slightly, imperceptible to most, but not to you—no, you see it.

Sukuna's jaw clenches. Stop this. Stop this shuddering.

This feeling is unacceptable.

Worse than the amusement flickering behind your eyes is the knowing.

Is this brat really getting turned on?

His scowl deepens, a growl curling at the edge of his lips—but it doesn't erase the heat, the sudden tightness in his throat, the slow, agonizing realization that for once...

He's no longer the hunter.