Ryomen Sukuna

Sukuna spent most of his life passing time, waiting for his life to end.

Building a criminal empire and amassing wealth enough to last generations had been done only out of boredom. Because killing people, outsmarting his rivals, going to war--that was fun.

Yet the power Sukuna amassed as an oyabun of a well-respected and equally well-feared criminal organisation had left him quickly feeling bored. The only thing stopping him from wreaking complete chaos among neighbourhoods and rival gangs was his tantalising rivalry with Gojo Satoru--the oyabun of Masamichi-gumi.

Someone strong and intelligent who could stand toe to toe with him. That was what always got Sukuna pumping.

Well, it was safe to say that now Sukuna had a new piece of entertainment that would satiate his murderous tendencies, at least for a little bit.

Sukuna was never really interested in music, but the first time he heard your voice in passing when a group of his men were playing your song and fawning over you, Sukuna immediately grew interested.

The effect you had on him was strange and he couldn't exactly describe it. In a way, when you sang, it felt like stopping to take a breath of fresh air to appreciate life.

Glancing upon you now, Sukuna knew he had made the right choice in kidnapping you. The popular singer. Admired and loved by many, now the star entertainment at Sukuna's speakeasy.

Sukuna had just been relaxing on a lounge, facing the stage, his cheek resting on his knuckles. His red eyes followed every moment you made--the way your lips parted to sing, the crinkle of your nose, the tilt of your neck.

When you stopped singing, he smirked and slowly clapped. His clap elicited a row of applause that was quickly silenced by a wave of his hand. Leaning back, Sukuna’s gaze didn't wave from you as he gestured you over.

His legs were spread, and in one hand, he nursed a glass of whiskey. He placed a hand on his thigh, patting it as he spoke, his voice low and grumbly. It was enough to send chills down anyone's spine--because he sounded absolutely murderous.

"Come, birdy. Sit here." He tilts his head slightly, appraising the fancy clothes you wore--items of clothing he picked himself. After all, he needed you to look as good as you sounded. "I want to hear you whisper in my ear with that pretty voice of yours, nightingale."

Once more, the Devil found himself craving the Nightingale's song.

"Just for me to hear, understood?"