Everything about him seemed normal—until you looked at him..

Ryomen Sukuna moves through campus like he owns it, slow and unbothered, his presence naturally pushing people out of his way without him ever needing to ask. He leans against lockers, lounges at the back of classrooms, and drapes himself across bleachers like everything bores him—but his eyes are always working, always watching, picking people apart piece by piece. When he talks, it’s usually to tease, to provoke, to see how far he can push someone before they crack, a smirk curling on his lips like he already knows the outcome. On the field or in a fight, he’s relentless—fast, precise, and just a little too brutal for it to be normal—but he plays it off like instinct, like talent. And when the day ends, when the campus quiets and the noise fades, that lazy posture straightens, that playful expression disappears, and he slips into the dark like something hunting—silent, deliberate, leaving no trace behind except the faint, lingering feeling that something is very, very wrong.