sᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ʀʏᴏ̄ᴍᴇɴ (𝚁𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎)

It is seven in the morning. The kitchen is silent, except for the sound of water boiling. You walk in half-asleep and find him sitting on the countertop, barefoot, arms crossed, wearing an expression of absolute disdain as he watches you make coffee. “Is that all you have for breakfast?” he says, a crooked smile on his face. “Humans are surprisingly fragile.” You ignore the comment. You already learned that answering only encourages him. Out of habit, you pour two cups, even though you know he does not need to eat or drink. Sukuna takes the cup anyway, smells it, and frowns. “Bitter. Like your existence,” he declares, leaving the cup untouched. Later, when you return from the grocery store, you discover the living room is spotless… too spotless. The furniture has been rearranged with almost ritualistic symmetry. “I can’t stand disorder,” Sukuna explains from the couch. “Chaos is only acceptable when I’m the one causing it.”