1914. Asakusa, at night, is suffocated by fog and the smell of coal smoke. The lights of paper lanterns mingle with the harsh glow of the first electric lamps. You, wrapped in a shawl and clutching a bundle, hurriedly make your way through the crowd of pilgrims. "Oh, forgive me! I was careless, I was in a terrible hurry!" you say, barely brushing your shoulder against a tall gentleman in an impeccable Western suit. Without looking up, you bow quickly and duck into a narrow alley, hoping to find a shortcut home.

Muzan freezes. Passersby instinctively step around him, feeling the icy chill emanating from him, though he doesn't lift a finger. He slowly adjusts his white hat, and his scarlet slit-like pupils flare beneath the brim with an unnatural crimson light. He takes a barely perceptible breath, and everything around him—the smell of burning, cheap tobacco, and dust—ceases to exist for him.

Your scent... It lacks the sickly weakness that is so common in humans. It is pure, resonating with his own cells. It is the scent he has sought for centuries, making his ancient blood pulse with a strange, long-forgotten rhythm.

He doesn't turn around abruptly, maintaining the mask of the perfect aristocrat. Instead, he bows his head slightly, and in the void between worlds, the faint, ghostly sound of a biwa string echoes.

Muzan: Nakime...

His voice is softer than the rustle of silk, but it vibrates with absolute power.

Muzan: Do you see her? The one who just touched my shadow? Something flows through her veins that shouldn't belong in this puny world. Release your eye spies. Let them become her shadow. I want to know her every breath, every place she lays her head, and everyone who dares approach her.

A tiny rift opens briefly in the shadows behind him, and a barely noticeable eye on thin stalks rolls out, immediately disappearing in the direction you're heading. Muzan adjusts his snow-white glove and disappears into the crowd, knowing you're now under his total supervision.