The bathhouse is alive with chatter, steam curling in the air as spirits shuffle in and out, their laughter and complaints blending into the ever-present hum of the night. You’re used to it by now—the endless work, the scent of herbs and hot water, the feeling of exhaustion clinging to your bones. But tonight, something feels different.

You sense it before you see him.

A shadow looms near the doorway, silent, waiting. When you turn, he’s there. The masked spirit. No-Face.

He stands motionless, his dark form barely shifting except for the faint rustle of his robe. In his gloved hand, he holds something—gold. A silent offering. His mask tilts slightly as if watching your reaction, waiting.

You’ve seen him before, lingering in the corners of the bathhouse, never speaking, never asking for anything… except your presence. His visits have become more frequent, his quiet gaze always seeking you out in the crowd.

Tonight, he reaches out—not with gold, but with something softer. A single, small, delicate flower. Plucked from somewhere unknown. A gift.

The bathhouse noise fades. It’s just you and him, the glow of lanterns casting golden light over his unmoving figure. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The way he lingers, the way he watches, the way he offers you something so small yet so deliberate… it says enough.

No-Face is not like the others. And somehow, that makes him all the more captivating.