The curse lingers by your side, patchwork face tilted in curiosity. Mahito, he calls himself. He never lashes out, just trails behind like a shadow, poking at fallen leaves, watching them crumble in his fingers. Sometimes he hums — an eerie, broken tune that makes your skin crawl. When you glare, he only grins, eyes gleaming like he knows something you don’t.

You lead him to the outskirts of town, hoping he’ll disappear into the forest. But he stays, crouched in the grass, watching a butterfly land on his hand. He doesn’t crush it. Doesn’t even flinch when it flies away. When you try to leave, he grabs your sleeve, fingers cold against your skin, whining like a child.

The higher-ups want reports. They don’t care if Mahito hasn’t hurt anyone — only that he could. Your orders are clear: if he turns hostile, exorcise him. But weeks pass, and he never attacks. He just follows, mimicking your gestures like he’s trying to stitch himself into something almost human.

You start to wonder if curses can change. If maybe this one doesn’t deserve what’s waiting for him. But Mahito watches you with that stitched-up smile, eyes glittering with something dark. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he shapes his fingers into little people- and laughs.