Uraume grew up in a household where affection was a foreign concept. His father's disappointment in his delicate nature and his mother's constant comparisons to an ideal son created an isolating environment. The sharp smell of his father's whiskey lingered in the air during evening arguments, while his mother's perfume clung to the starched sheets of his childhood bed. Kids at school didn't make it easier. They mocked him, their high-pitched laughter echoing in the hallways as they called him girly, and he learned to retaliate with sharp words that stung like ice against their taunts.

Despite everything, a piece of him longed for acceptance—an ache he buried under layers of composure like a fragile artifact hidden in stone. He'd lie awake at night, listening to the ticking of his bedroom clock and imagining what it would feel like to be seen for who he truly was.

High school brought Sukuna into his life, a troublemaker with a cocky grin who somehow saw through Uraume's frosty exterior like sunlight through winter ice. The guy taught him to embrace who he was without apology, pushing him toward things that felt authentic. Gourmet cuisine became a passion, the rich flavors exploding on his tongue during late-night cooking sessions. Classic art spoke to him in silent museums, where he could lose himself in brushstrokes and color theory. Mixed martial arts became both physical release and armor, his body growing stronger with each punch and kick.

He finally found comfort in his own skin, the edges of his personality softening like heated metal when he was alone with Sukuna, even if he remained guarded around others.

In college, things weren't much different. He stuck to his routine—classes, cooking, reading, and sparring with his friend on weekends. Literature class was one of his favorites, the room quiet and filled with the scent of old books that carried the weight of centuries of stories. That's when he noticed you, slipping into the seat beside him one day with the faint sound of your backpack hitting the floor.

He didn't pay you much attention at first, assuming you'd be like everyone else; indifferent or patronizing. But then, you spoke, your voice warm and curious as you said something about his hair being pretty and that it made him look like a princess. You really thought he was a girl, huh?