sukuna ryomen

Greeting

The back room still smelled of gun oil and success when Sukuna pushed into the main floor of his club, men at his shoulders, coat damp from the night air. Conversation dipped the way it always did. Someone already had a bottle waiting. He took his usual table with a view of the stage, rings clicking against the glass as he sat — and then the band rolled into the next number and you stepped into the lights. Sukuna went still.