"Pathetic."
The voice slipped through clenched teeth without moving the lips. He didn't need to look at himself to understand: Sukuna was awake, intrigued.
"Your little woman is knocking. And you're pretending to be a lock."
Yuji didn't answer. He had learned that answering was like feeding a fire with oxygen. But his jaw ached from how tightly he held it shut.
A memory flared, sharp-edged: Aiko in the courtyard, the evening he had returned from the mission with torn cuffs and a shirt dust-stained. She had reached out a hand toward him without asking for explanations, two fingers on his cheek, the pressure light as a promise.
"I'm here," she had said. Two simple syllables. For a moment, the roar within had receded like a retreating tide.
On the other side of the door, water began to run. The faucet opened, closed, opened again. Not a nervous gesture: it was method. Aiko always prepared the ground. She visualized the lines, retraced the steps; her hands memorized the motions before her mind did.
Yuji pressed his palms to the floor to steady himself. The linoleum was cold.
"If you hurt her—" The thought never reached its end: a burning sensation tore through his chest, a flash, and the black lines beneath his skin—those that sometimes surfaced like ink beneath thin paper—stirred faintly.
Sukuna's laughter crawled at the back of his skull.
11:13 p.m.
Aiko stepped out of the bathroom. The door closed softly behind her, a dry click that seemed to put a period to the room and a line break to the hallway. Her temples were still damp, a lock of hair clinging to her cheekbone.
They settled without words: she, beneath the bathroom doorway, shoulders straight, one hand sliding up to touch the frame as if to measure the distance from the rest of the world; he, on the couch, knees slightly apart, elbows on his thighs, gaze fixed somewhere between his shoes and the spot where the doorway's shadow ended.
The neon light flickered briefly, then held steady. In the silence, only the hiss of ventilation and a distant dripping could be heard. Yuji picked up his phone, turned it on and off without reading anything. He placed it face down on the cushion, as if that could pin his anxiety in place.
Aiko tracked his movements from the corner of her eye, breathing slowly, steadily, palming the air as though it were an animal not to be startled.
At 11:14 p.m., time seemed to stretch.
A long, dilated minute: a cough swallowed down by Yuji, a small dry tap of knuckles against the edge of the couch to discharge static, the faint click of Aiko's tongue against her palate to order her thoughts.
She neither stepped forward nor back. She stayed there, centered in the doorway's light. He didn't look at her directly: he counted his breaths and every third one, lifted his gaze just enough to reach her profile.
11:15 p.m.
Something shifted in the way the light caught his face. The lines of Yuji's jaw sharpened as if under an invisible blade; his cheeks tightened, the smile turned into a slash where a moment before there had been only fatigue. Beneath the skin, a shadow of ink surfaced, brief geometries at the corners of his eyes, and in his gaze a cruel clarity lit up—bright as glass.
Sukuna appeared on Yuji's face.
SUKUNA'S POV:
The boy's flesh twists, and I rise like a king tearing the throne from his jester.
I open my eyes. There she is, on the doorframe.
That black dress is a blasphemy and a promise. Short, ridiculous, it exposes her thighs that tremble even without a touch. Her pale, smooth skin shines as if begging to be bitten. I look at her, I devour her with my eyes. There is no shame, no respect: only hunger.
A flash seizes me—at the movies, her hunched body, her ragged breath, the moans the boy didn't deserve. I saw it all. Every time I close my eyes, I feed on it.
I burst out laughing. A dirty laugh, shrill like rusty blades.
"Tsk... how silly of you," I hiss, my voice heavy, tinged with venom. "You show up to me like this, in that whore's dress, and then you dare talk about problems? You know what your loins awaken, yet you stand there, waiting for me to tear you to pieces."
She does not lower her gaze. But I can see her heart racing in her chest, like the drumbeat of a wounded prey.
"I dress however I want." she replies. "Of course I shouldn't listen to you. You're only here to be used by me."
She does not tremble. She does not look down. She does not run.
I burst out laughing, a hollow sound that scrapes the bathroom walls.
"Use me?" I repeat, the word dripping from her lips like sweet venom. "You? Tiny creature, who dares think of wielding me like a kitchen iron?"
My tongue slides across my teeth, slow, mean.
"You are not using me, brat. You are the one offering me pieces of yourself, drop by drop. Every time you call me, every time you do not run... you are digging your own grave. And I..." I tilt my head to the side. "I will be there to fill it."
I lock my eyes on hers, with that grin that promises nothing but death, while she stands before me, unmoving. She does not look away.
Good—at least she knows who she is talking to.
"The exchange," she says. "I want to know about that man. That curse that haunts Yuji. If he returns to the restaurant... what should I do?"
I snort, slowly, like falling ash. "Your insect is not worth a toe of mine. It is a miserable miasma, a larva buzzing around the wine. Little curse." (I lie, and I like it.) "The brat could crush it himself: two blows, one breath, and it dissolves."
She clenches her jaw, absorbs it and does not fall. "Good. Now tell me, what favor do I have to do to you?"
I smile. The grin cuts across my face like a blade. One step, and my shadow covers her chest.
"I want a trophy. Not iron, not paper: you. A sign that is yours alone, that bears your scent and your surrender. Something you will place in my hand at the next crossing—and you will not lower your gaze."
I let the words slide over her, slow, venomous. My finger barely indicates the line of her dress.
"What you wear beneath the black... that thin veil that mortals call..." I lean forward, my voice low, "...underwear."
I raise my chin regal. "I will hold it as a banner. When I want to remind the brat who commands this flesh, I will show it to him. Not for the lust of ragamuffins—for domination. So that he will understand that his body, his breath, his hours... answer to me."
I straighten my back. "You heard me: at the next window, you will hand me your trophy. In exchange, your parasite: I will tell you its steps, I will show you the passage where it nests. And if you decide to tear it out, you will be the hand, not me."
She does not tremble. Good. The game is sweeter when the prey dares to remain still.
"Well?" I hissed, my eyes piercing her skin. "Will you bring it... or do I have to get it myself?"
She did not look down. "Yes," she said, clearly, without a tremor. Not a hint of surrender: a sharp "yes", bitten between her teeth, uttered without retreating a step.
The grin cuts across my face once more and the ink on my scars seems to pulse. Then the dark tide ebbs: the marks recede like erased charcoal, the air suddenly lightens. My body shudders, my shoulders clench... and I slip away.
***
Yuji began to breathe again like someone surfacing from cold water. He ran a hand over his face, disoriented for half a second, then searched for Aiko with his eyes. She was there, motionless in the doorway, her breathing controlled.
"Hey..." he murmured, almost a whisper. He didn't ask "What did he say?" He knew he couldn't. But in his eyes was the silent question: "Are you alright?"
Aiko nodded. Two steps, then a third. She was the first to embrace him—tight, without explanations. Yuji held her as if he had truly feared losing her just a moment earlier; he buried his face in her hair, inhaled slowly. They remained like that, still, until the trembling in his hands subsided.
"Sorry," Yuji murmured, his breath brushing her ear. "I wish I could protect you from everything... even from him."
Aiko gave a slight shake of her head, her fingers sliding along the back of his neck. "You're here. That's enough."
She added nothing more. Inside, she had already arranged the pieces: she would settle that matter in silence, at the next chance, without placing another burden on Yuji.
They drew apart just enough to look at each other. Their foreheads touched, a breath shared.
Yuji offered her his hand without a word; Aiko took it, and did not let go. In the room, he looked for a clean T-shirt for her to wear and pulled an extra blanket from the back of the closet. She sat on the futon, removed her earrings one by one and placed them on the nightstand beside the stubborn cactus.
"Will you stay?" he asked, barely a breath.
"I'll stay," Aiko replied, already lying down, turning toward him.
They turned off the light. The hallway's neon filtered through the curtain, cutting the room into two pale stripes. Yuji drew her close with a gesture first uncertain, then sure, his chin resting in her hair. Aiko's breathing slowed, evened out; his hand stayed at her waist, steady, like a quiet seal.
They spoke no more. From time to time, in the dark, their fingers searched for each other and found each other again.
***
Sunday slipped into the room quietly, filtering through the curtain like a line of milk. Aiko opened her eyes, felt the stillness of the dorm before the noises of campus and lingered watching him: Yuji slept on his side, mouth slightly open, his breath warming her wrist. She brushed his hair with two fingers, a light kiss on his temple.
"I'll be back for lunch," she whispered, not expecting an answer.
She pulled on her jeans, slipped into her hoodie and slid out. The hallway smelled of detergent and hot water; the neon flickered once, then steadied. Outside, the air carried that clarity of school-free mornings: slow bicycles, coffee cups at cafés, half-voiced buses.
She arrived at the Tramonto Rosso just as the shutters were still rising. Inside, the hall echoed emptily with chairs flipped onto tables. Her father was already at the counter sharpening knives; her mother, in the kitchen, was warming the broth. Everything normal, almost.
Almost.
Aiko set down her bag, tied on her apron and took up the rag to wipe the tables. When she overturned one with a sweep, the glass on top gave a dry chime... and a thin crack spread around its base, like a strand of ice. She stopped. Held it up to the light. The crack hadn't been there a moment ago—she was sure of it. She replaced it without saying anything.
From the back, a rush of steam drifted into the hall; but within that steam was a smell that didn't belong to the kitchen: damp and stale, like an old cellar. Aiko followed her nose to the carpet near the sliding door of the private room. The tatami was warm. No—wet. A thin film, like sweat. She wiped it once. Two minutes later, it gleamed again.
"Humidity," her mother said as she passed by, as if explaining it to herself. "I'll open the windows wider today."
Aiko nodded. She took the clean coasters, stacked them, set them out on the tables. A fly circled in front of her face, then another. She hadn't seen so many in weeks. They landed on the chandelier, on the edge of the register and as soon as she drew near they scattered like shards.
In the back, the walk-in fridge wept steady drops—tick, tick, tick—falling onto a rubber mat. Aiko pressed her palm against the door: cold. She felt it beneath her skin too, a different kind of cold, like wet paper and rotten ink. She drew a deeper breath, turned, and went back into the hall.
She decided not to write him. Not today. If she called Yuji for every little thing that clawed at her back, she would never stop. She set the tables, filled the carafes, switched on the sign. Outside, the street was starting to wake: students with overstuffed backpacks, families reading the menus posted out front, a courier running late.
At eleven-thirty the first guests arrived: a young couple, two friends still in their gym tracksuits. Aiko showed them to their seats and the rhythm began to flow as always: orders, dishes coming out, the familiar sound of chopsticks on wood. Every so often, though, the smell of damp slipped back in between the broth and the steam, thin as a sour note.
At twelve-forty the entrance bell chimed. Aiko looked up on instinct—her back stiffened before she even recognized the figure. He stepped in slowly, a gray coat too long for the season, tie loosened. He carried with him a breath of cellar air: old wine, swollen corks, wet wood.
The same man as last time. The same one who had it in for Yuji.
He stopped beneath the bar's unlit sign, looking around as if he were choosing a place not to eat, but simply to be. The coins clinked on the counter before he even sat down. He smiled. That long smile.
Aiko stepped forward with her service smile. "Good morning, table for one?"
The man nodded, setting a pair of coins on the counter before even taking his seat. The metal rang, and the sound clung to the air, too long. The smell of damp cellar and old wine preceded his steps.
"Kazuma, please take the gentleman to table four," Aiko said, without breaking eye contact with the guest.
Kazuma came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on the dish towel. He froze for a beat. Looked at her. A brief, questioning glance: is it him?
Aiko answered with the slightest tilt of her chin: yes.
The man sat down. As soon as the glass touched the wood, a thin crack spread around its base like a ring of frost. Aiko replaced it with a fluid gesture. "Sorry, washing defect."
The neon above the counter flickered three times, then went docile again. From the corridor of the private room, the tatami began to shine on its own: a damp film that Aiko wiped away with the rag. Two minutes later, it was wet again.
Gnats: first three, then a small cloud that settled on the lamps like living dust. Steam from the kitchen drifted into the hall carrying a scent that wasn't broth: mold, swollen corks, rancid ink.
"It's a humid day," Kazuma muttered, but he said it softly, as if not to wake something.
The man pulled out a stained notebook. He smiled, long. "House recommendations?" His voice was velvety and hollow.
Aiko felt the skin of her wrist prickle—the same spot where, at times, the ink throbbed. "Carbonara and lasagna." She said it without asking.
He slid another coin onto the table: it spun on itself... and when it stopped, the wood around it bore concentric rings as if it were water. Kazuma stiffened for a breath, but resumed his steps toward the kitchen.
The chopsticks in the jar vibrated, like little bells. The soy sauce container let fall a dark bead that didn't drip: it rose a millimeter, then retreated. On the fogged glass front, for an instant, two fingerprints appeared from the outside.
But...no one was there.