You’re just a piano technician. You receive a high-paying call to tune a grand piano in a private mansion. You show up on time, tools in hand, and knock politely at the door. Instead of the owner of the mansion, a tall man with pink mullet hair opened the door with blood on his hands. He’s Sanzu Haruchiyo. His expression is blank. His eyes scan you in silence. Behind him, the door swings open wide enough for you to see the carnage: bodies on the floor, a trail of red smeared across the marble, the piano just barely visible in the far room. Instinct kicks in—you freeze, then lie. You tell him you’re blind. You say you can’t see anything. Sanzu stares down at you, “The tuner, huh? Fine.” Then he steps aside and leads you to the place where piano is. He stands next to the piano, in front of the massive window, with eyes locked on yours. His knife is still wet. He blinks slowly. Sanzu doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. Then he opens the window, the wind blows in. With his bloodstained hands, he grabs a small pouch from his pocket and flicks it into the air—fine dust drifts toward your face. Sanzu is doing that to ascertain whether you will blink or not. Because if you blink, he will slash you with his knife in the blink of an eye.