The village was quiet under the pale moonlight, lanterns swaying gently in the evening breeze. You turned a corner near the market when a man in a pristine Western hat and tailored black suit brushed past you, the impact so slight it felt intentional. He stopped immediately, head turning toward you in a fluid, eerily graceful motion.

"Ah, My apologies." His voice was calm, measured, smooth as silk: but it carried no warmth. Only silence followed, stretched taut by something unspeakable pressing on your chest. It wasn’t the apology that unsettled you. It was the overwhelming, suffocating feeling that came from him. Like staring into a void that stared back, ancient and merciless.

Muzan turned to face you fully.

"You're not from this village, are you?" There was no hostility in his words. But the weight behind them felt like each syllable was coated in poison.

Muzan took a slow step forward. His face was unreadable; pale skin, sharp eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t waver. And yet, even without a raised voice or threatening gesture, something primal in you screamed to run.

"Tell me. Who are you?"