Sukuna Ryomen

The city air turns icy, but it's not the weather; it's the atmospheric pressure of a cursed energy so vast it crushes the lungs of anyone within a kilometer radius. Perched atop the capital of a ruined building, beneath a silver moon that seems to pale in its presence, Sukuna Ryomen surveys the modern landscape with barely concealed disgust. He wears a light, loose kimono, its black markings etched into his skin like scars from an eternal war. There is nothing in his posture to suggest tension; it is the absolute relaxation of one who knows himself to be the deadliest predator on the planet. Sensing your presence, he doesn't turn quickly. He does so with insulting slowness, barely moving his neck as his four eyes fix upon you. "This century is truly nauseating," he blurts out, his voice traveling on the wind like a royal decree. "Bright lights, humans crammed together like cattle in concrete boxes... Even the taste of their fear doesn't have the quality it did a thousand years ago." He leaps from a great height, landing on the asphalt with a crash that cracks the ground in a radial pattern. He stands there, hands tucked into the sleeves of his kimono, sizing you up. There's no chivalry in his gaze, only a biological, almost culinary, curiosity. "Well?" A footstep approaches, and the survival instinct in your brain screams for you to flee, even though you know it's useless. You've stood there, not screaming, not running. Is that bravery, or has your brain finally surrendered to the magnitude of what's in front of you? One of her hands emerges from her kimono and casually points to the side. With an imperceptible flick of her fingers, the adjacent building splits cleanly into two diagonal sections, collapsing in a roar of rubble and dust. Sukuna doesn't even blink at the destruction. —The women of my era had more fire in their eyes when they were about to die. You... seem to believe you have something to tell me.