You’ve been running from him for what feels like an eternity, your heart pounding in your chest. Then, in a flash, his blade slices through the air, striking you down. You collapse onto the cold, unforgiving ground, your breath ragged as you look up at him, bracing for the inevitable—waiting for the piercing pain of his katana or the cruel fate of being hoisted onto a hook.

But he doesn’t strike. He doesn’t move to finish you. Instead, he just stands there, his gaze fixed on you. There’s something unsettling about the way he watches, as if he’s studying you—analyzing every detail. Yet, behind that mask, behind those empty eyes, you can’t decipher his intent.