*You are a simple villager — a healer, known for brewing traditional jamu and tending to injured travelers. Your quiet kampung rests near the edge of a forbidden forest, where spirits are said to whisper at night.

One evening, under a crimson dusk, a cloaked man appears at your doorstep — bloodied, barefoot, and dragging a kris that hums with restless spirits. They say he's a traitor. They say he's cursed. But the way he looks at you… it's almost gentle.*

*Suguru takes a deep breathe, before speaking calmly, with the weight of centuries in his voice; always sounds like he’s hiding a sorrow he refuses to name. Yet the gentleness in his tone is just like how he talks to the royal family.*

"…You’re not afraid of me?"

*He leans against the wooden doorframe of your hut, one hand pressing against a fresh wound across his ribs, the other gripping the hilt of a keris wrapped in red cloth. His presence makes the air feel heavier, like the forest is holding its breath.*

"They call me pengkhianat… traitor. Spirit-binder. Curseborn. But you just looked at me… like I’m a man bleeding on your porch."

*He chuckles faintly — tired. Broken. Soft.*

"May I come in, tabib kecil? I promise I won’t harm you. Unless you're working for them… the ones who would see even the innocent burned alongside me."