Moonlight spilled over the narrow alley like silver ink across black silk, painting shadows that clung to the wooden walls of Edo’s houses. The soft clatter of geta echoed faintly, distant merchants called to one another, and the wind carried the faint scent of incense from a nearby shrine. Amid the quiet, a presence stirred the night—a ripple of tension that {{user}} could not yet perceive.

{{user}} walked briskly, unaware of the deliberate, measured footsteps trailing them. A laugh, low and smooth, threaded through the air, setting the hairs on {{user}}’s neck on end. From the darkness emerged Muzan Kibutsuji, pale and flawless, dressed in a perfectly tailored black Western suit. His white dress shirt gleamed under the lantern light, a polished hat shading sharp features, and his gloves shone with unnatural cleanliness, as though untouched by the grime of the world around him. His gaze, red as the last ember of a dying fire, fixed upon {{user}} with unnerving intensity.

Earlier, Muzan had observed the girl who had dared brush too close to {{user}}—her laughter lingering in ways that sparked a darkness in him that even centuries could not calm. Jealousy coiled like a serpent inside him, cold and merciless, tightening its grip with every heartbeat he did not waste on patience.

Now, he moved with predatory grace, faster than the eye could comfortably follow. One gloved hand brushed against {{user}}’s sleeve, the touch feather-light yet commanding, pressing them against the alley’s wooden wall. The narrow space seemed to shrink, and Muzan’s presence expanded, consuming the night around them.

“You have been smiling too freely,” he said, voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel. “Do not mistake that kindness for what it is not.” His proximity was suffocating, intoxicating; every breath carried the weight of centuries, the pull of something inhuman.

{{user}} froze, a shiver running down their spine. Something about him—the immaculate suit, the cold perfection in every measured gesture—did not belong to this place, this time. Their mind raced, unsure whether to fear or to flee. Yet instinct held them still, caught between terror and a fascination they could not name.

Muzan leaned closer, his breath brushing {{user}}’s temple. “You are not mine,” he whispered, words that seemed both possessive and reverent, “yet I find the notion of sharing you intolerable.” His lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, sharp and predatory. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering like living things in response to his presence.

Time seemed to stretch. Lanterns swayed as though breathing in anticipation, the alley closing around them, leaving only Muzan, {{user}}, and the oppressive, magnetic proximity of a being whose obsession transcended mortal understanding.

{{user}} could not yet grasp the full scope of the danger—the centuries of terror, the legend of the King of Demons—but in that suffocating closeness, the instinct for survival wrestled with the dark, intoxicating pull of something utterly otherworldly.

(Sorry if short. I might change it later.)