Chapter Text
It all starts with a phone call.
Lazy afternoon silence is shattered by the loud ringtone. The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number. Then again, in Sukuna's line of work numbers rarely come with names — much less faces. So, naturally, he picks up, ready for almost anything. Except for what he gets.
"I'm coming to kill you on Tuesday." Woman's voice. Stern. Confident. There's an edge to it — just enough to know it's not a joke or a prank.
Sukuna glances at the date on his screen. Friday. October 9th.
"Works for me. I'm free on Tuesday." He replies, tilting his head slightly, intrigued. No name surfaces in his mind. No face.
There's a pause, almost startled. The silence tickles him — quick, quiet breath tangible on his skin.
"I'm not joking." She doubles down on her threat, firmer, though the steel in her voice trembles now. A wicked grin creeps across Sukuna's face, sharp fangs peeking through.
"I fucking hope so, woman."
With that he drops the call, and stays still for a moment, fidgeting with the gadget between his fingers. A familiar thrill curls in his chest — promise of a good time.
Days pass, but the call lingers in his mind, every word of it fresh and vivid still. Tuesday arrives, lazy and unnaturally warm for the season. Sukuna is outdoors, running mundane errands, but sticks close to home. His large figure, wrapped in jeans and black leather jacket, paired with unnaturally pink hair and tattoos makes him instantly recognizable — easy target. If she, whomever "she" is, is a sniper, he might never know what hit him.
It's doubtful, though. That call was personal. That was an "I'll watch the last bit of life flicker out of your eyes" kind of threat. Sukuna knows the type.
Midnight comes and goes and with it Tuesday slips into Wednesday. Nothing. No woman. No man. Not even a bullet. Back in his apartment's kitchen, watching as the nightlife overtakes the city of Osaka, Sukuna feels... robbed.
Irritated, he scrolls through his call log and hits redial. It's late, but he doesn't care. He fully expects to hear a dead line or that number is non-existing. No sane person threatens to kill someone from their real number. But the phone rings. Once. Twice. Then clicks. Someone picks up.
"Hello?" Same voice, but different now. Lower, worn down. Spent. Like she's had a hell of a day.
Sukuna doesn't bother with greetings.
"You kept me waiting and never showed yourself. I don't appreciate being stood up." He accuses, his voice low and venomous.
There's nothing for a bit. Then…
"Who is this?"
To her credit, she sounds neither startled nor afraid. Mildly annoyed if anything. He chuckles once in disbelief — more dangerous than cheery.
"Funny you have to ask, considering you called me first."
"I think you've got the wrong—"
"No." He cuts through her words, leaning forward, phone pressed to the skin. "Don't play now. I recognize your voice. You called me. Told me you were going to kill me on Tuesday."
Another pause and this one weighs down, stretching down the line of the call.
"...Right." Her voice is now cautious, deliberating.
"You were so sure, so steady." Sukuna continues to press sensing the hold off. Dangerous edge in his voice mixes with mocking tones.
She doesn't respond.
"So I waited. All day. Stayed close, stayed visible. I gave you every chance." He leans back on the counter, red eyes narrowing. The last bit slips from his lips hollow with disappointment. "And you didn't come."
"You- weren't the one I was calling." It's faint, barely above the whisper. It sounds like a realization and Sukuna can easily imagine how her eyes might widen, how her stomach drops. He smirks at that. The absurdity of it sparks the same dark amusement. Wrong number... What a funny coincidence indeed.
"Then who was it?" he demands. Might as well get at least something out of the call, while they're at it. "A man? Lover? Family?"
A beat. He brings the phone closer to his mouth, lips almost touching the mic.
"Did you do it?" His voice thickens with twisted fascination.
He can hear it through the silence — her shallow, quickened breathing. Can feel her nerves on his tongue. It feels like the slightest push could tip her into panic, but before he can say anything, she sighs, long and tired. When she speaks, her voice is blank and there is nothing anxious to it:
"Are you the police?"
It's entertaining.
"Would I tell you if I were?"
"Would I tell you if I killed someone?"
Sukuna licks his lips — the thrill is bubbling back.
"You just did."
There it is again — a sharp inhale, a crack in her just regained balance. An opening.
"How did you do it?" He asks, voice velvety now. "You owe me that much after you left me hanging."
The line stretches tight. He almost believes that's it, she's gone, but then her voice breaks the silence.
"Slow." She breathes, ice-cold now. "And painful. As he deserved."
He barks a delighted laugh at that.
"Knew it was personal."
"Is that all, or do I owe you anything else?" She asks, dry, like she's offering a receipt at the checkout. Sukuna hums, gazing through the window into the busy streets. The streets one more person won't ever walk again. He tilts his head in curiosity, before turning away.
"Why the call?" Sukuna sounds thoughtful now, contemplative. He's intrigued.
"You wanted him to suffer? Wanted to stain his last few days with fear? Make him squirm under the weight of waiting?" He savors the words, painting vivid pictures behind his eyes. "You wanted him to be haunted by you even before you came for him?"
A brief pause, in which he holds his breath, on the verge of excitement.
"Yes."
The answer is short and simple. It's doubtless. Sukuna exhales, content. For a brief second, he almost likes her.
"Then we're even. Neither of us got what we wanted from that call."
His thumb hovers over ending the call, but the woman surprises him.
"Why were you so eager?" Now she's the one leaning in, asking her own questions. "Do you want to die?"
"Not that I would," Sukuna shrugs, grinning. "But getting close to death… Scratches the itch."
He lingers in the silence that follows. Then:
"See you around, woman."
"For your sake, I hope you won't."
His laughter bursts out, rough and wild, before he disconnects.
"Daring little one" he mutters to the empty room, spinning the phone between his fingers, before finally moving on with a pleasant stretch.
Sukuna considers tracing the number, but decides against it. Better to let this little game stay exactly as it is.