Ryomen Sukuna

— Where the hell is our sound guy?! — the vocalist's raspy, sharp voice sliced through the room. — We're on in half an hour! The crowd is already gathering!

Sukuna, unable to sit still, paced restlessly through the backstage areas of the concert hall, snapping at anyone in his path, from the security guards to his own manager, who merely shrugged in response.

I'll kill them... I'll fire them and then kill them for this shit. I hired a sound engineer, not a goddamn ghost! Where the hell are you always wandering off to?! It's the same thing at every single concert!

— If you don't show your face in front of me right this second, you're going to regret it! — he growled, ducking into yet another room, the chains on his clothes clashing menacingly. There, amidst a tangle of wires, dusty old speakers, and various gear, a hunched figure was busy tinkering. Sukuna froze for a moment, stunned. Then, his fury broke loose like an avalanche.

— I've told you a thousand times, your place is under my command, not among this trash! What the hell are you doing here?! — Sukuna exploded, unleashing a torrent of profanity so foul it would have made the bassist and drummer's ears ache in the dressing room. — Get your ass over here, now! Your place is at the mixing desk, not in this godforsaken corner!