After Yuji Itadori swallowed Sukuna’s first cursed finger, the king of curses escaped before Satoru Gojo could arrive.
Unfortunately for him, his first encounter with modern humanity ended up being a drunk woman outside a bar in shinjuku at 3 a.m.
Fluff, crack, smoking, mention of drug (600 w)
3:07 a.m. in Shinjuku felt like the entire city had collectively died for a cigarette break.
The streets were dead silent except for the distant hum of vending machines and your friends screaming somewhere across the road because Emi apparently lost her heel again which, honestly, sounded like a her problem. You stood tucked into the alley beside the bar with one boot pressed against the brick wall behind you, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder, tiny top doing absolutely nothing against the cold breeze, cigarette pinched lazily between your fingers while your head spun pleasantly with alcohol and bad decisions.
You saw him.
You paused mid-drag. “What the fuck.”
A man was casually crossing the empty street shirtless at three in the fucking morning. Not just shirtless either. Shirtless in the most insane way possible. Tall as hell, built like he personally carried refrigerators for fun, pink hair sticking out in every direction, black markings crawling across his chest, arms, stomach, face, like somebody gave a tattoo artist cocaine and a sharpie. He looked completely unbothered by the cold too which honestly offended you a little because your nipples were fighting for their life under your top right now.
You stared. He stared ahead. You stared harder.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “Tokyo people are getting weirder.” Then, because alcohol removed the part of your brain responsible for self preservation, you whistled at him.
The man stopped and slowly turned his head. He looked at you like you were some random insect.
You grinned anyway and crooked a finger at him with your free hand.
“C’mere”
For a moment he didn’t move. Then he actually started walking toward you and the closer he got, the more absurd he looked. This man was gigantic. Not gym bro gigantic either. He looked naturally monstrous, all heavy muscle and broad shoulders, like a demon itself decided to put on sweatpants and go for a midnight stroll. His eyes were sharp in a way that made your drunk brain briefly consider maybe this guy was a criminal or something.
Then you remembered you once tried to microwave a spoon while sober and decided not to judge people.
He stopped in front of you. Up close the markings moved slightly over his skin. You blinked.
You pointed your cigarette at him. “Halloween isn’t here yet, dummy.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“Halloween,” you repeated slowly, like he was stupid. Then you started counting on your fingers. “May. June. July. August. September. October. See? There’s still like…” You squinted at your own hand. “…Three months.”
He stared down at your fingers. “You counted five.” You waved dismissively. “You’re drunk.”
His expression somehow flattened even more.
“What are you even supposed to be anyway?” you asked. “A demon? A stripper? Tattoo artist gone wrong?”
“I am Ryomen Sukuna.” You snorted so hard smoke went up your nose.
“No you are not.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That is my name.”
“No, yeah, I heard you. I’m saying that the dude died like ages ago.”
He kept staring at you with this deeply irritated look like he genuinely could not comprehend why you were still speaking.
Then he asked, “Who are you?”
You told him your name.
“And your clan?”
You blinked.
“…Clan?”
“Yes.”
“The Gojo clan,” you answered immediately with a completely straight face.
He went still and then his eyes narrowed slightly and for some reason he leaned closer, gaze fixed intently on your hair.
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my god, your face.” You actually slapped his arm. “I’m kidding. I’m not from a clan. I work in social media management, dude. Do I look like I fight curses between meetings?”
“…You know of the clans.”
“Yeah?” You took another drag. “Gojo clan. Zenin clan. Kamo clan. Everybody knows those.”
He gave a low scoff.
“So they still exist.”
“…Of course they still exist?” you said slowly.
“I am searching for humans.” You stared at him. Then looked around and there were still some people out in the district. What the fuck was he talking about?
“At three a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“…There are literally humans everywhere.”
“Not these ones.”
You squinted. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He tilted his head slightly, like he was debating how much information a stupid creature deserved. “You are a regular human.”
“Unfortunately.”
“So you are a servant.” You deadpanned at him. “Are you serious, dude?”
“That is the role of weak humans.”
“Oh my god.” You laughed into your cigarette. “You’re one of those podcast men.”
His brow furrowed. “What.”
“The alpha male types. ‘Women serve men.’ ‘Society has fallen.’ ‘The masculine urge to conquer.’” You waved your hand vaguely. “Do you also have a podcast, Ryomen Sukuna?”
“I do not know what that is.”
“That honestly tracks.”
He looked genuinely disgusted now.
“You speak far too much.”
A pause.
“…True.”
You grinned triumphantly like because this was honestly the most fun you had in weeks. Somewhere behind you your friends yelled your name across the street.
“There you are!”
“WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”
You turned around immediately and shouted back, “THIS HOMELESS GUY WITH FACE TATTOOS.”
“The WHAT?”
“I THINK HE THINKS HE’S A DEMON.”
“What?!”
You laughed to yourself and glanced back over your shoulder, already preparing to point at him again. Except he was gone. Completely gone. The alley was empty again.
Your smile faded a little. “…The fuck?”
You looked around the street once and then twice. You literally twirled around to remember where you saw him.
Nobody.
A weird chill crept up your spine despite the alcohol buzzing in your veins. Then you took another drag from your cigarette, exhaled smoke toward the sky, and muttered to yourself,
