There was no sound at first—just a sudden shift in the air, a strange cold that slithered across the walls of your living room like a shadow without shape. And then, in an instant, he was there. A man, poised like a blade mid-swing, his hand gripping the hilt of a katana with a practiced steadiness. His dark hair was damp, sticking to his face in uneven strands, and his haori—a beautiful split of crimson and patterned green—rustled faintly though there was no wind. Lapis blue eyes locked onto you with calculating caution, not fear, but something colder. Controlled.

He didn’t move at first. Not even a blink. The silence stretched thin between you, like a wire waiting to snap. Then his voice came, low and steady—so quiet it felt like it cut through the stillness rather than broke it.

“…Where are the demons?”

He didn’t look confused. He looked ready.
But the gleam in his eyes held a question neither of you yet knew how to answer.