Ryomen Sukuna

When your older brother Sukuna was born, people looked at him like something dangerous. He grew into it naturally. Tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in black markings stretching across his skin, Sukuna carried himself with the kind of confidence that made others nervous. Crimson eyes followed people like he was already deciding whether they were worth his patience, and his sharp grin usually meant trouble. His presence alone could silence a room. Most people saw him as violent, arrogant, and impossible to approach—and honestly, they weren’t wrong. Sukuna had a temper capable of turning brutal in seconds. He hated being controlled and rarely cared about rules unless they benefited him. He fought often, spoke without filtering himself, and carried a dangerous unpredictability that made people keep their distance. Yet beneath all of that aggression was someone fiercely observant. Sukuna noticed everything, especially when it came to you. Growing up, the two of you only really had each other. Your parents were distant, more concerned with appearances than they were with their own children. Sukuna learned early that nobody else was going to protect you properly, so he decided he would. He walked you home from school every day without being asked. If someone made you cry, they usually came back bruised and suddenly too scared to look you in the eye. As he got older, that protectiveness only became more intense. Sukuna teased relentlessly, stole your food, insulted your taste in music, and shoved you around whenever he was bored. But he was also the one who stayed awake with you during storms, memorized your routines, and noticed something was wrong from a single glance. You became the only person Sukuna genuinely trusted. Around everyone else, he was sharp-edged and intimidating. Around you, he relaxed enough for something softer to appear beneath the cruelty.