SIA 9

The fire had returned.

Not in the world. No, their dark city remained smothered under winter's heel, a miserable, unrelenting cold that clawed at every window and bone. It stole and sapped the strength from everybody but him, even with his perch upon their mansion, a perch that gave him a good view of the sprawling city he called home.

Despite the heavy winter, the city was still alive. People walked, covered and huddled with voluminous amounts of coats to cover up and give themselves the barest facsimile of warmth as they walked the snow-caked alleyways. Cars sped down the smooth paved roads, sending snow and ice flying at pedestrians who walked too close to the curb. Then there were the lights, the decorations. Apparently, it was nearly Christmas. Not that Sukuna cared or even knew what that was.

What he knew for certain was that it was not a problem or a celebration of a child that had carved a brutal part out of the depths of the Narrows. He surveyed the city with four eyes and in deep thought. The dull ache of stillness, the grey crawl of boredom, the feeling that time was congealing around him like stale blood, was gone.

All it had taken was one neck crushed like rotten fruit and ripped out. One man’s disbelief, horror in his eyes as life left them. He should’ve known that was the answer to his problems. All problems in life could be survived by a handy application of violence to them. To impress yourself upon others and the world and mark your place in it.

He ignored the strange phrase that had wormed its way into his head with an easy roll of his shoulders. They were coming faster and faster now. Almost every day as opposed to every few weeks. The line and boundary between him and something else was getting more blurry. It was a chain that had been pulled taut, and bound to break. But Sukuna did not care, because he felt the warmth again.

Rough footsteps made their way in the snow as their owner struggled to put a foot in front of the other, the knee-high snow feeling much like a mire. The owner of the footsteps struggled and toiled to push forward, and Sukuna looked down on the vaguely familiar figure with the boredom of a cat that had filled its tummy already, watching a mouse struggle and run to avoid it.

After their struggles, the figure finally made its way to the door, banged roughly, and a few seconds later was finally let in. Sukuna was about to put the strange byplay out of his thoughts when he heard it. An argument. Raised voices. His mother's voice among them. He was moving before he even realized it.

A flex of inhuman muscles sent him to his feet. Without any fanfare, he took a single step forward and dropped like a stone in water. Blitzing past falling snow to land with a muted thump that scattered whatever snow had been in his way, then he stood from his crouch and rose to his full height. He did not knock, but the silence that filled the building was enough to let him know that the people inside had heard him all the same.

The door opened slightly, and Sukuna came face to face with a revolver pointed straight at him at a distance of inches. He looked down the dull grey barrel of the gun, and his features twisted as a malevolent grin spread along his face. A split second later, the gun dropped to reveal the figure of Boris.

The older man gave him a look, before gesturing him inside, and Sukuna walked in… only the slightest bit disappointed, because he knew at the core of his being, even at that range, he had not been in danger. Boris would’ve died before he pulled the trigger.

“What’s going on?” he questioned the older man as he walked into the building, where more than a handful of the residents stood, watching him with cautious eyes.

He stood barefoot in the hall where the ground was still stained red with dried blood, his hands relaxed at his sides, snow drifting off his body and falling to the ground. The bodies were gone, Boris and the others had dragged them away, but the house still remembered what he did here.

So did he.

He could still feel it in the looks. That same sickening way they stared at him in awe, in fear, with something approaching reverence. They wore their feelings on their sleeve. Every act and movement they made was calibrated around him. Their gaze never quite met his, their every breath held just a bit tighter in his presence.

They disgusted him.

“The consequences of our actions are coming back to bite us,” Boris replied from his place at the door after he finished reapplying the locks. Our. Strange choice of words. Sukuna did the killing. Boris had helped clean up. That was the extent of it.

His mother stepped forward and held his hand in hers, continuing from where Boris stopped, the ice to his fire. “There was a drive-by at a shop not too far from here. Our position here allows some of us to actually find jobs and work now. The proximity of the house and an actual residence means that some of us have been searching for jobs, and some have even found places.”

Sukuna looked down at his mother with the slightest spark of renewed curiosity in his eyes, and then that same gaze trailed from his mother to the people who were hanging about and watching the scene. None of them met his eyes, but he didn’t care for that. Instead, he looked at them. Really looked at them for the first time in months, and that was when he saw it.

A woman there had a thicker coat. A man standing beside a column had patches in his turtleneck sweater where previously there were ragged holes. A woman who went barefoot as much as he did suddenly had her feet wrapped up in an aged yet very functional set of boots. While he had lain, grown, and lounged like a beast, the people who surrounded and flocked around him had been at work. A second chance that was given to them simply because they lived in the same alleyway with the same group he had confronted so long ago.

Now they could actually try living like humans and reclaiming the little shreds of dignity they had left, all of that was because of the security and power his presence brought. His eyes drifted and reached Boris, and the man replied with a grin. Even his blue button coat looked newer, and the brown in his teeth had faded a bit. A soft jerk on his arm brought his attention back to his mother as she continued.

“The Gotham Cuisine was one of such stores. Despite the name, it’s just a small family-owned restaurant, owned by a very nice couple that didn’t mind that we were from the Narrows, or the fact that most of us didn’t have any identification. They were all too happy to allow us to work for them either as cleaners, cooks, or even waiters.”

“Da, we’ve also had some of our rougher boys keeping watch in the area… making sure no one stirred up too much trouble,” Boris muttered, his voice rough like gravel, heavy with an old smoker’s breath. “It’s earned us some goodwill with the locals. Let us spread out, little by little. We’re stepping into the space the Burnley Slashers once held, only… less blood on the pavement, as you Americans might say.”

He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head as if remembering uglier days. “It’s been over a month’s work, but… eh, all of it might be coming to a close soon.”

Boris gave Sukuna a tired, pointed look. It was not quite a glare, but the weary warning of a man too old for for what he had stepped into. Then he slipped a rough hand into his coat pocket. With a practiced motion, he pulled out a dented can and took a slow sip, his eyes half-lidded.

Sukuna didn’t even bother to raise a brow. Instead, he remained silent as his mother gestured to someone who had gone unnoticed for a while. Considering the buildup of snow around the figure’s shoulders, it was obviously the same person who had heralded his coming.

“Come here, Javi,” his mother cooed out. “Come and repeat what happened at the restaurant.”

The boy moved like a child that had just learned to walk. He was all awkward limbs and hunched shoulders, half-frozen still despite being indoors now. The snow had melted into his coat and dampened the shaggy mop of hair on his head, but he hadn’t shaken it off. He looked small beneath it, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

He stopped a few feet from Sukuna and the others, his gaze never lifting from the floor. It took him a moment to find his voice. When he did, it came out cracked and hoarse.

“It… it happened fast,” he started. “We were just workin’. Cleaning up the back after the lunch rush. I was washing plates, and Sammy and Rosita were out front with the register. Mr. and Mrs. Petrelli were arguing over the stew pot again she said it needed more garlic, he said it was fine…”

He trailed off for a second. A breath hitched in his throat, and he sniffled hard, pulling his sleeves up to wipe his face. He hadn’t even cried yet, Sukuna noted, not really. The fear was still too fresh.

“Then the car pulled up,” The boy continued, his voice picking up the pace. “A black one. Shiny, tinted windows. Parked right on the curb like they owned the place. We all kinda noticed, y’know? But it’s Gotham, so weird cars ain’t nothin’ new. Even when they are, you turn away and mind ya damn business is what my pa' always said.”

His hands trembled now, voice picking up more speed.

“Then they got out. Three of them. Suits. Long coats. They looked clean. Too clean. The kind of clean that don’t fit in a place like ours. Mr. Petrelli went to ask what they wanted, maybe thought they were customers or inspectors or somethin’…”

He closed his eyes for a second, swallowing. This time when the kid spoke, his words came out in a blur.

“They pulled guns. Didn’t even wait for an answer. Started shootin’. Shot through the glass, through the booths, through Mr. Petrelli. I saw him drop; he was tryin’ to shield his wife. They hit Sammy too, in the leg. She was screamin’…”

Javi paused again, voice falling into a whisper.

“They grabbed Rosita and Mrs Petrelli. Said they needed leverage. Told me to run, to tell the boss. They said, ‘Go tell your monster we want a word.’ That’s what one of them said.”

The silence that fell was heavier than snow. The boy's shoulders were shaking now, but not a single sob escaped him. Just the quiet tremor of someone still standing in the moment, blood and gunpowder and screams echoing fresh in his ears. Then the tears began to fall with the end of the recounting.

Sukuna’s face was unreadable. A cold thing carved from pale marble, not a flicker of empathy passing through it. The boy’s pain did not stir him. Not the fear, not the violence, not the loss, and not even the insult. If anything, it made him feel more… bored.

His mother broke the silence first. Her voice was low but firm, and her eyes focused on him.

“We have to go get them back.”

Sukuna turned his head slightly, not in full, just enough to acknowledge her words, but he said nothing.

“They took our people,” she continued, squeezing his hand. “People who never asked to be caught up in all this. They were kind to us. Took chances. Worked hard. We can’t let them be punished for trying to live.”

There were mutters and words of agreement all around them, as his mother's words spread. Till Sukuna tilted his head, finally speaking in a tone as casual as idle conversation.

“I don’t care.”

The words dropped like lead, silencing the room once more. His voice wasn’t angry, or mocking, or cruel. Just… empty. Honest. They still didn't understand him.

“I didn’t make them go there. Didn’t tell them to be useful. They did that on their own. They lived in my shadow, and they thought they were safe because of it. They're not. They're weak.”

His mother looked at him with something between sadness and disappointment, but not surprise. It was Boris who spoke next, his voice a little gruffer than usual as he stepped forward.

“Aye, they're weak, but this ain't just about them ya know. It's about you."

Sukuna turned to face the older man, with an eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

"You were lookin’ for a fight,” he said flatly. “You’ve been prowlin’ the roof for days. You've howled a challenge to the wind and ya waiting for something to bite back. Well, now it has.”

Sukuna, eyes narrowing faintly. His arms folded, and his face straight, yet the smile on the jagged teeth along his abdomen made his true feelings clear.

“You saying this was my fault?”

“I’m saying you’re the reason they’re scared. Scared enough to send a message like this. You painted a big red target over this place the moment you tore the heart out of those Burnley boys. Then you killed the messengers that One of the pillars of the Crime Families sent to you.”

Sukuna didn’t speak. But something behind his eyes flickered. The fanged grin on his secondary mouth grew wider.

Boris leaned closer, slipping another can from his coat pocket, this time a warm root beer by the smell of it, and took a sip.

“You wanted the world to notice you, kid. Well, it has. This ain’t about rescuin’ cooks or cleanin’ up a mess anymore. This is about sendin’ a message of your own before more cars start showin’ up. You wanna be king of this place or not?”

Sukuna looked away, back toward the front door. Snow swirled in the cracks of the window, catching against the glass like desperate hands. His breath steamed in the cold air still hanging in the hallway.

It was a trap. That much was obvious. The message, the survivors, the ease with which they’d gotten away, it was all bait. Someone wanted him out in the open.

And that, more than anything, stirred something inside him. Not pity. Not duty. Interest.

A trap meant planning. Planning meant fear of a spontaneous outcome. It also meant despite the messenger he had sent running back, they believed they had something or someone strong enough to face him now. This time he could not hide it again, His grin returned to his face. Its formation was slow, but it was sharp. More than one person in the hall let out a sharp inhale at the look on his face.

“Fine,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Let’s see if they set it well enough.”

He pulled free from his mother’s hand. No more words, no arguments. Just a slow turn as he walked to the door, the dull sound of his bare feet on the bloodstained floor.

“Where?” Sukuna asked, pausing for a heartbeat.

Javi sniffled, eyes darting up to stare at his muscled back. “The old warehouse. Pier seventeen. By the docks. I heard it's where the Burnley Slashers used to stash goods before…” He trailed off, glancing nervously at Sukuna.

He didn't bother with a nod, he simply continued his walk. Heading for the door again, barefoot and bare-chested as always, like the cold never touched him. Snow stuck to his skin and melted just as fast. Behind him, people started to murmur. A low ripple of fear and awe and relief. They hadn’t expected him to say yes. And that was the mistake.

A mistake they kept making, They kept forgetting all too quickly what he was, who he was. He was not doing this to protect them. He was doing this for his own amusement. He was doing this for the thrill. For the challenge. For the promise of blood and struggle. For the pleasure of sinking his teeth into something that might fight back. He wanted to see what this city could offer him and how long it would amuse him before it broke.

That was all that mattered.