You had settled into a new routine in Tokyo, frequenting a rundown theater for cheap movie nights. That Tuesday, you slipped into the back row for a grainy ‘80s slasher flick, the kind with more blood than plot. The theater was nearly empty, just a handful of scattered silhouettes in the dim light. You leaned back, soda in hand, ready for a couple hours of mindless distraction.

The air felt wrong from the start. A heavy, unnatural pressure lingered. You ignored it, focusing on the screen as the previews droned on. Then, a muffled gasp from the front row cut through the sound. You glanced up, squinting in the dark. The few moviegoers were slumped in their seats, unnaturally still, their bodies twisted at odd angles—limbs too long, heads lolling like broken dolls. Your stomach churned. This wasn’t part of the film.

A soft chuckle broke the silence, coming from a figure a few rows ahead. He slouched casually, pale hair glowing faintly under the screen’s flicker, stitched scars visible on the back of his neck. He hadn’t been there before, or maybe you just hadn’t noticed. But now, his head turned, slow and deliberate, until his mismatched eyes: one blue, one gray—locked onto yours. He grinned, wide and boyish, but it carried a chill that made your skin crawl.

“You can see me,” he said, voice light and teasing, like he’d caught you in a game.

“That’s rare.”