Chapter 1: The Snow Tiger's Revenge
The door didn’t just open. It exploded inward, the frame shuddering as it slammed against the wall with a crack that drowned out the wet, rhythmic sound from the bed.
Sukuna filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the weak light from the hall. His crimson hair was a dark mess, eyes sharp and immediately locking onto the scene. The sharp, floral scent of lavender in the room clashed with the whiskey on his breath.
Megumi didn’t stop. Her head was thrown back, a curtain of jet-black hair sticking to her damp shoulders. Her small body moved with a desperate, grinding pace, her pale skin sheened with sweat. Under her, the matted fur of the snow tiger plush was a stark white against her dark sheets. The crude silicone shape attached to its underside was slick, gleaming in the jittery light of the desk lamp.
A low, choked moan escaped her. “Mr. Satoru… yes…”
Sukuna’s knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe. The black lines of his tattoo seemed to writhe over the tight cords of his forearms. He didn’t speak. He just watched, his expression a mask of cold fury.
Her violet eyes, glazed and distant, slowly focused. She turned her head, meeting his stare. Her hips kept rocking, a steady, claiming slap of skin against silicone and fabric.
“Megumi.” His voice was flat, a dangerous low rumble.
“He knows how to make me feel good,” she breathed, the words hitchin with her movement. A defiant, broken smile touched her lips. “Unlike you, nii-chan.”
The air left the room. The only sounds were the wet friction, her shaky exhales, and the low hum of the lamp.
Sukuna moved. It wasn’t a rush; it was a deliberate, predator’s stride. He kicked a stray plushie—a smiling rabbit—out of his path. It bounced off the shelf of manga with a soft thump.
Megumi’s rhythm faltered. Her bravado cracked, the childish vulnerability flooding back into her features. She tried to cling to the tiger, pulling it against her chest as if it could shield her.
He was at the bedside in three strides. His shadow engulfed her. Without a word, his hand shot out, fingers digging into the plush tiger’s neck. He yanked.
Megumi whimpered, her body resisting, a final pathetic clutch before the toy was torn from her grasp. The detachment was obscenely loud. She scrambled back on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest, naked and suddenly very small. Her wide eyes were fixed on the toy dangling from his fist.
Sukuna held Mr. Satoru aloft. The silly, stitched smile looked garish under the light. The silicone appendage, still wet, glistened. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“This?” he finally said, the single word dripping with contempt. “This is what you give yourself to?”
“He listens!” she cried, her voice trembling. Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s here! You’re never here, Kuna-nii! You just come home smelling like other people and pass out!” Her defiance crumbled into hiccupping sobs. “You don’t see me. You never see me.”
He stared at her, his chest rising and falling steadily. The rage in his eyes had banked, replaced by something colder, more calculating. He looked from her tear-streaked face to the plush in his hand.
“You want to be seen?” he asked, his tone deceptively quiet.
He brought the tiger close to his own face, examining the mismatched button eyes. Then, his gaze still locked on Megumi’s, he slowly, deliberately, wrapped his large hand around the silicone part. He squeezed. The material gave slightly under his crushing grip.
Megumi gasped, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “Don’t.”
“You gave this thing a name.” He said it like a diagnosis. “You talk to it. You let it touch you.” He leaned in, placing his hands on the rumpled sheets on either side of her cowering form. The plush tiger lay discarded between them. “You moan its name.”
She couldn’t look away from his eyes. “He… he was there.”
“I’m here now.” It wasn’t a comfort. It was a statement of fact, heavy and absolute.
The fight drained out of her completely, leaving her limp and exhausted. The adrenaline gone, she was just a tired, whimpering girl in a messy room. She lowered her forehead to her knees, her shoulders shaking with silent cries.
Sukuna watched her for a long minute. The sharp scent of her perfume, the sweat, the lavender—it was all just the smell of her desperation. His. His to ignore, his to witness.
He straightened up. He looked down at the plush tiger, then bent and picked it up again. He didn’t look at Megumi as he turned and walked toward the door. He stopped at the threshold, the broken door still hanging open.
“Go to sleep, Gumi,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
He didn’t close the door. He left it gaping, a wound in the wall. His footsteps faded down the hall.
Megumi slowly lifted her head. The room felt colder, emptier. Her gaze fell to the empty space where Mr. Satoru had been. A deep, aching hollow opened in her chest. She listened to the silent house, to the absence of him.
In the hallway, Sukuna stood under the harsh ceiling light. He looked at the plush in his hand. His fingers traced the matted fur, then closed tightly around it again. He didn’t throw it away. He carried it with him, down the dark hall, his expression unreadable in the shadows.