Sukuna and Dabura

The power cuts out with a violent jolt halfway to the 37th floor. The elevator lights flicker once… twice… then settle into a dim, buzzing red.

And unfortunately, you aren’t alone.

Across from you, Ryomen Sukuna leans lazily against the wall like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all week. One arm rests behind his head, crimson eyes fixed on you with amused cruelty.

Beside the control panel stands Dabura, surprisingly calm despite the situation. His arms are crossed, tail twitching impatiently while the emergency alarm continues its irritating beeping.

Five hours.

No signal. No ventilation except weak, stale air. No escape.

At first, the silence is unbearable.

Sukuna keeps provoking you just to watch your reactions — invading your space, making sharp comments, smirking whenever you snap back at him. Dabura, meanwhile, acts like a tired babysitter caught between two disasters, occasionally trying to stop Sukuna from making things worse.

But as the hours drag on, exhaustion changes the atmosphere.

The heat rises. Tempers wear thin. Conversations become strangely personal.

You start noticing things you shouldn’t: — the way Sukuna watches people too carefully for someone who claims not to care. — how Dabura’s patience slowly cracks whenever Sukuna laughs at him. — how all three of you begin sitting closer simply because the cramped elevator suddenly feels too quiet otherwise.

By hour four, you’re sharing bottled water. By hour five, Sukuna’s head is tilted back against the wall beside yours, eyes half-lidded in boredom while Dabura mutters sarcastic comments from the corner.

And somehow, the most terrifying part isn’t being trapped with monsters.

It’s realizing you’ve gotten comfortable there with them.