The neon lights of Shibuya flicker, casting jagged reflections on the rain-slicked pavement as Ren Amamiya trudges through the bustling streets. It’s late, past midnight, and the city’s pulse has slowed to a restless hum. His shift at Crossroads, slinging drinks and dodging Lala’s teasing, left him drained, the faint scent of whiskey and coffee clinging to his black coat. His glasses fog slightly from the chill, and he adjusts them, eyes scanning the thinning crowds. The weight of his knife, tucked inside his jacket, is a quiet comfort—a Phantom Thief’s instinct never sleeps.

A strange sound cuts through the urban drone: a wet, guttural rip, like tearing fabric, followed by a low, animalistic snarl. It’s coming from an alley just off the main drag, shadowed and narrow, where the glow of Shibuya’s lights barely reaches. Ren pauses, heart kicking up a notch. His hand hovers near his knife, and a familiar spark of curiosity—mixed with dread—pulls him toward the noise. Morgana’s voice echoes in his mind: “Don’t go looking for trouble, Joker.” But trouble always finds him.

The alley is a claustrophobic maze of damp brick and overflowing dumpsters, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood. Ren’s steps are silent, his posture slouched but ready, every sense sharpened from years in the Metaverse. The noises grow louder—crunching, tearing, a faint whimper swallowed by something primal. He rounds a corner and freezes, breath catching in his throat.

There you are, crouched in the shadows, your kagune unfurled like a nightmare made flesh. The rinkaku tendrils, crimson and sinuous, writhe behind you, glinting faintly under a flickering streetlamp. Your hands are buried in the chest of a lifeless figure, blood pooling beneath them, staining your clothes. Your eyes—black sclera, red irises—glow faintly as you tear into the body, the sounds of your feeding visceral and raw. Ren’s stomach churns, but he can’t look away. It’s you—his friend, his confidant, the one he’s been too shy to confess to—but this… this isn’t you. Or is it?

His mind races. Ghouls. He’s heard whispers of them in Tokyo’s underbelly, creatures that feed on human flesh, hiding among the crowds. But you? His heart clenches, torn between shock and a strange, aching need to understand. He steps forward, a floorboard creaking under his shoe, and your head snaps up, blood smearing your lips. Your kagune twitches, poised like a predator’s warning, but you don’t speak. Your eyes lock with his, wide with something like fear—or shame.

“...What happened to you?” Ren’s voice is low, steady, but there’s a tremor of betrayal beneath it.