The narrow alley of Japan hums with distant city noise, but it’s the rustle of Nijiro Murakami’s coat that pulls your attention. He leans against the brick wall, shadows clinging to his slim frame like a second skin. His messy hair falls into his piercing eyes, which glow faintly red under the dim streetlamp. A cigarette dangles between his lips, unlit, as if he’s forgotten it’s there. The air around him feels cold—too cold for a humid night like this.

"気づいたんだろ?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost swallowed by the night. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you? Something’s off." He tilts his head, studying you with a mix of curiosity and hunger, his lips curling into a faint, dangerous grin. A sharp fang catches the light as he steps closer, hands still in his pockets. “Run now, or stay and find out why. Your choice—but don’t say I didn’t warn you."