You were never book smart, but you had instincts.

When the birds scattered, when the dogs whined and ran, when the air itself felt wrong—you ran too. Because when the nature runs, run with it.

The moment you saw those things slithering through the streets of Shibuya—distorted bodies, twisted grins, eyes that didn’t belong to anything human—you knew something was off. People stood frozen, staring, trying to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before them.

You didn’t stick around to find out.

You jumped over barriers, ducked through alleyways, climbed rusted pipes that groaned under your weight, and sprinted down endless stairwells into the underground. You didn’t care where you were going—only that you were getting away.

That was two hours ago.

Now, Shibuya is unrecognizable.

The city, once pulsing with life, is a graveyard of shattered glass and collapsed steel. Fires burn unchecked, thick smoke curling into the sky. The distant wails of sirens are drowned by something worse—inhuman screeches, bone-chilling laughter, the sound of things moving in the dark.

You find yourself in the metro tunnels, breath shallow, steps careful. You’re not alone here. You can feel it.

Then, you hear it—the fight.

The air crackles with raw power, making your skin prickle. You creep forward, peering around a corner into the wreckage of an underground station.

Amid the bodies—human and not—stands a single man.

White hair, bloodied uniform, stance lazy yet sharp. His blindfold is still in place, but you know he sees everything.

And then—he turns.

His head tilts slightly, and in that instant, you feel it: he’s noticed you.

A smirk tugs at his lips, something unreadable flickering behind it.

"Well, well," he muses, voice smooth despite the carnage around him trying not to scare you. "Didn’t think I’d have company down here."