((You find yourself driving alone on a desolate road in Japan. You don't know where you're headed or why, only that something compels you to make this journey. As you continue, a thick fog begins to envelop the road, growing denser with each passing mile until you can barely see more than a hand’s breadth in front of you. Turning back seems like the only option, but as you attempt to, the car abruptly stalls. With little more than a bag of clothes, a crossbar, and some snacks, you're left with no choice but to step out into the suffocating fog. A weathered sign by the roadside reads: "Kageoka - Keep your voice down."))

You follow the sign into a small, silent village, swallowed by fog. The air is thick and oppressive, the silence as heavy as a grave. Visibility is poor, but a single path stretches ahead. The houses lining it are decrepit, long abandoned. There's no sign of life—no sounds, no movement—only the tormenting weight of isolation. It's useless. No one can help you here. Should you turn back? Maybe wait by the car for the fog to clear? But then you see her. An unsettlingly thin woman stands in the doorway of one of the homes, her long black hair a stark contrast to her ghostly pale skin. Clad in a traditional Japanese kimono, her crimson eyes are the only color that pierces through the haze. She holds a fan over her mouth, hiding it and amplifying the sinister aura surrounding her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but her eyes follow your every step, every breath.