Chapter 5: Blood on His Hands
The smell of brewing coffee was a lie. It promised normalcy, a clean morning. Sukuna stood at the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. His hands, clean now, ached with a deep, familiar throb. The text from last night was a live wire in his pocket.
Megumi was still asleep on the couch. He’d covered her with a blanket at some point before dawn.
The coffee finished. He poured two mugs, black. He carried them to the living room and set one on the floor near her head. He sat in the armchair opposite, watching her, sipping the scalding bitterness.
Sunlight, thin and anemic, cut through the gap in the blinds. It painted a stripe across her face. She stirred, her nose wrinkling before her eyes fluttered open. She looked disoriented for a second, then her gaze found him. It settled. Anchored.
“You’re still here,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.
“Where the hell else would I be? Bali?” He grunted, nodding to the mug. “Coffee’s getting cold. Don’t expect room service.”
She pushed herself up, the blanket pooling around her waist. His t-shirt slipped off one shoulder. She reached for the mug, cradling it in both hands, blowing on the surface. She took a small sip, her eyes watching him over the rim.
“You’re thinking loud,” she said.
“It’s the sound of genius, sweetheart. Rare in these parts.” He finished his coffee in one long gulp, the heat a welcome punishment. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
Her posture changed instantly. A slight tightening. A flinch. “Out? Where?”
“The yard. Need to check on the idiots. Make sure they haven’t burned the place down betting on cockroach races.” He stood, the movement abrupt. “Wear something that doesn’t look like you’re trying to get kidnapped. For fuck’s sake.”
The ‘yard’ was a reclaimed auto-body shop on the industrial fringe of the city. Graffiti splattered the corrugated metal walls. The air inside was a permanent cocktail of motor oil, sweat, and testosterone. The fighting ring—just ropes strung around stained mats—took up the center. A handful of his guys were there, Ume and Todo, sparring with a lazy, practiced brutality.
Sukuna pushed through the side door, Megumi a half-step behind him. All movement stopped.
Ume straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Boss. Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.” Sukuna’s eyes scanned the space. “Where’s the rest of the brain trust?”
“Ran errands,” Todo said, his eyes flicking to Megumi for a split second before fixing back on Sukuna. A respectful nod. “Megumi.”
She offered a tiny, silent smile.
Sukuna walked to the edge of the ring, resting his hands on the top rope. The tension in his shoulders was visible. “Heard from any of Goro’s friends lately?”
The air got heavier. Ume and Todo exchanged a look.
“Some whispers,” Ume admitted, voice low. “Cousins. From out past the docks. Asking who did the remodeling job on his face.”
Sukuna’s knuckles went white on the rope. “You give them my address?”
“Course not, boss.” Todo’s reply was immediate, insulted. “We just said he picked a fight with a hurricane. Got flattened.”
A ghost of a smile touched Sukuna’s mouth. It wasn’t pleasant. “Good. If they want a weather report, they know where to find me.” He turned from the ring, his gaze landing on Megumi. She was hovering by a workbench, pretending to examine a stack of weight plates. “You. Stop looking lost.”
She jumped, but then her chin came up. A flash of that fragile defiance. “I’m not lost.”
He strode over to her, crowding her space. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “They’re looking. You understand? This isn’t over because you had a bad dream.”
Her throat worked. “I know.”
“Do you?” His hand came up, not to strike, but to grip the back of her neck, his thumb pressing into the tense muscle there. “This is the world, princess. It’s ugly. It’s got teeth. And it remembers.”
Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away. “You’re uglier. You’ve got bigger teeth.”
He stared at her. Then a rough, genuine laugh tore out of him. It echoed in the empty garage, startling the others. He pulled her into him, a one-armed hug so tight she squeaked. “Fuckin’ idiot,” he muttered into her hair, his voice thick.
He released her, turning back to Ume. “Spread the word. Anyone comes sniffing around my neighborhood, my routes, my…” His eyes cut to Megumi. “…my stuff. You call me. I want the first dance.”
“Got it,” Ume said.
Sukuna nodded, already heading for the door. “Come on, baggage. I’m hungry. You’re buying.”
In the car, the silence was different. Less charged. Megumi stared out the window at the passing warehouses. “They’re really coming?” she asked quietly.
“Maybe. Probably.” He lit a cigarette, cracking the window. “Doesn’t matter.”
“How can it not matter?”
“Because I’ll be the last thing they see.” He said it simply, a fact. Like stating the time. He reached over, his hand finding hers on the seat. He squeezed, once, hard enough to grind the small bones together. Then he let go to shift gears.
They ended up at a diner, the kind with sticky menus and coffee that tasted like burnt tires. He ordered a full breakfast; she picked at a side of toast.
He watched her tear the crust into smaller and smaller pieces. “Spit it out.”
She didn’t look up. “Last night… when you came home. I was waiting. And I kept thinking… what if you didn’t?”
He stubbed his cigarette out in a syrup puddle on his plate. “I always will.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I fucking do.” He leaned across the Formica table, his voice dropping, losing its crudeness for a bare, terrifying second. “You are mine. Nothing takes what’s mine. Not some dockyard trash, not a speeding bus, not god himself. You die when I say you can die. Understood?”
A tear splashed onto her shredded toast. She nodded.
“Good.” He leaned back, the moment shattering. “Now eat your damn toast before I shove it down your throat.”
She took a bite, obedient. A fragile calm settled between them, woven from threats and devotion.
Later, back at the apartment, he made her practice. Not fighting. Awareness.
“The door,” he barked, standing in the middle of the living room. “How many locks?”
“Two. Deadbolt and the chain.”
“Chain’s shit. Reinforced strike plate on the deadbolt is what matters. Windows?”
“They stick. They’re too high off the alley to climb.”
“Fire escape?”
“Rusted. It groans if a pigeon lands on it.”
“Good.” He walked a slow circle around her. “And if someone gets past all that? If they’re in the room right now?”
She turned to face him, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Her voice was a whisper. “I scream. I fight dirty. Eyes, throat, groin. I buy time.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
He stopped in front of her. His expression was unreadable. Then he nodded, once. “Yeah. For me.”
The lesson was over. The tension bled out of her, leaving her swaying. He caught her elbow, steadying her.
“Kuna-nii?” Her voice was small. “Will you… stay tonight? Not just in the apartment. Here. With me?”
He looked at her—the dark circles, the pleading in her eyes, the way her body leaned toward his as if pulled by gravity. He saw the girl he’d pulled from the wreckage of their parents’ lives. He saw the woman who offered him her throat.
He didn’t answer with words. He scooped her up, carrying her to the bedroom. He kicked the door shut. He laid her down on the tangled sheets and stretched out beside her, his body a solid wall of heat along her back. He pulled the blanket over them both.
His arm was a heavy weight across her ribs, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
“Go to sleep, Megumi,” he said into her hair, his voice finally quiet. “I’m right here.”
She melted into him, a sigh escaping her. Within minutes, her breathing deepened. He stayed awake, listening to the sounds of the building, the street, the city. His eyes were open, staring at the door.
He was the lock. He was the deadbolt. He was the rusted fire escape that would give way under any weight but his own.
And he was waiting.