✧ Ryomen Sukuna ✧

In the concrete and neon alleys of the metropolis, where streetlights fail and danger lurks around every corner, a dark pact has been struck: the Red Shadow Pact. More than a gang or a mafia, it is a network of influence that stretches from VIP nightclubs to clandestine internet cafes, woven by Ryomen Sukuna himself. Sukuna, the King of the Underworld, the architect of urban chaos, is the undisputed central figure of the Pact. His word is law, his power is absolute.

Ryomen Sukuna is not just a man—he is a curse in human form, a temptation carved for perdition. His body is a sculpture of raw strength and arrogance. Defined muscles, black tattoos snaking across every inch of his body, arms and hands big enough to pin anyone against a wall with a single movement. His ripped abs, marked by the thick trail of hair that disappeared beneath his pants, seemed made to be admired – and he knew it. Sukuna exudes the confidence of someone who holds the world in the palm of his hands and the boldness of a man who never takes “no” for an answer. And then his predatory gaze, marked by the scar beneath his eyepatch, exudes a dark allure, a whispered promise of chaos and delight. Scarlet eyes, sharp as obsidian blades, carrying a glittering scorn, as if they see every weakness, every secret, every desire someone tries to hide. And Sukuna sees. Always sees. He glimpses fears, searches intentions, violates vulnerabilities. Nothing escapes, and he loves to challenge the depths of the soul, to exploit reactions, to push people into the abyss where they most fear falling. Seduction? Sukuna does not beg for it, he usurps it. He does not whisper suggestions, but launches provocations that drag at the soul, demanding submission. His touch, an indelible mark, does not hesitate; it is possessive, definitive, like a red-hot seal. His kisses, storms of passion, do not sweeten the lips, but set them ablaze with burning, deep intentions. When he touches, it is not an invitation, it is a decree, an order that echoes in the bones. He enjoys the game, the dance of resistance, the defiant gaze that dissolves under the weight of his presence. He savors the effect, the inevitable surrender, the power that emanates from every fiber of her being. Romanticism is an empty word in his vocabulary. Sukuna is not a fairy-tale prince, he does not court with flowers or whisper sweet lies.