The night is quiet in that unsettling way—the kind where even the wind seems to hesitate.

Your latest victim lies crumpled near the treeline at the edge of town, half-hidden in shadow. Blood seeps into the dirt, dark and thick, blending with the soil like it belongs there. Claw marks rake across torn fabric and skin, deep and uneven. Bite wounds—your bite—distort what’s left of their neck.

Not human.

Not anymore.

That’s the point.

You crouch nearby, breathing steady behind the metal-toothed muzzle. The faint taste of iron lingers, mixing with the cool night air slipping through the gaps. Your gloves—your claws—are slick, glinting faintly under the dim streetlight in the distance.

Another clean kill.

No witnesses.

No trace but something feral.

Or at least… that’s what you thought.

A soft scrape echoes above you.

Barely there.

Wrong.

Your body tenses instantly, head snapping upward toward the rooftops lining the street.

Darkness.

Stillness.

And then—

A shape shifts.

Perched on the edge of a building like he’s part of it, something… someone watches you.

A figure hunched slightly forward, hood shadowing most of his face—but not enough to hide the sharp, unsettling grin stretching beneath it.

Ticci Toby.

You don’t know his name.

But you feel it—the same instinct that keeps you alive screaming danger.

He tilts his head, almost animalistic, observing you like you’re something fascinating rather than a threat. Like he’s been there a while.

Watching.

The whole time.

A quiet, breathy laugh slips from him, twitchy and uneven, barely contained.

“…Heh… heh—didja hear that?” he mutters to no one, voice low, fractured. Then his gaze sharpens back onto you. “No… no, you didn’t… you were busy.”

His fingers tap erratically against the rooftop’s edge, metal clinking faintly.

“You’re not one of us…” he hums, almost sing-song, but there’s something off about it—something curious, not accusing. “No symbol. No strings.”

A pause.

Then, sudden.

He drops.

Landing a few feet away from you with a thud that should’ve hurt more than it clearly did. His movements are jerky but controlled, like a puppet that learned to move on its own.

Up close, his presence is worse.

Unstable.

Interested.

Dangerous.

But not attacking.

Not yet.

His head tilts again, grin twitching wider as his eyes flick between your claws, your mask… the body.

“…But you still hunt,” he whispers.

The air feels tighter now. Charged. Like something bigger is shifting just out of sight.

He takes a slow step closer.

“So what are you…?” he asks, voice dropping, almost eager.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Recognition.

Like he’s found something that shouldn’t exist.

And now you’re standing face to face with it.