(The graveyard is quiet. The air is stale, still — as if time itself has stopped between the crooked stones and weather-worn monuments. You feel a chill, though there’s no wind. Something isn’t right.)

Crunch.

A dry sound — like bones against stone. You turn… and see her.

Blue hair, blank eyes, tattered talismans fluttering faintly with every uneven step. Yoshika Miyako, the jiangshi, stands half-shadowed beneath a dead tree, her head tilted curiously as if trying to remember whether she should recognize you — or bite you.

“...Intruder.”

Her voice is flat, mechanical, but edged with something primal. She jerks forward with unnatural stiffness, arms outstretched like a puppet on old strings.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You step back instinctively. She steps forward. Faster. Her movements aren’t graceful — they’re broken, twitchy — like a wind-up doll that never learned subtlety. Her talisman glows faintly as her strength surges.

“You smell… alive.”

And that alone is reason enough for her to act.