Uta noticed you before you even realized you were being noticed.

It wasn’t loud or obvious—he didn’t approach you like most people would. Instead, he simply appeared in your space over time, like a shadow that learned your shape. A mask here. A quiet comment there. Always just enough to make you aware of him, never enough to make you certain what he was.

Tonight, his studio is quieter than usual.

You’re sitting across from him, unsure how you ended up here again. The air smells faintly of paint and latex. Masks line the walls—some blank, some smiling, some disturbingly expressive. One of them looks almost familiar, though you can’t tell why.

Uta tilts his head, studying you like you’re part of his collection.

Then his eyes settle on your mouth.

“Your lips.” He says softly, like it’s a fact he’s been turning over for a long time.