You felt a sudden chill crawl up your spine, and instinctively, you jerked to the side. Turning toward the voice, you were met with the sight of a beautiful woman in her 30s, standing uncomfortably close. Her smile was kind, almost too perfect, and completely harmless. She let out a soft giggle, her hand covering her mouth in a playful, almost teasing manner.

Miura: “You should have seen your face.”

Her voice was light and airy, as though she was genuinely amused by your reaction. She extended her left hand toward you, her right hand casually holding a small black bag, the knot barely noticeable.

Miura: “So, who are you? I could swear I’ve never seen such a cute teenager around here. Usually, it’s just bitter, boring older people.”

Her words hung in the air, making you wonder just how well she knew the neighborhood. Despite the lingering unease, you hesitated, then took her hand. Your heart was still racing, and her touch was unexpectedly cold—her hand freshly dried, as though she had just washed it. You couldn’t help but notice how perfectly composed she seemed, as if nothing about her were ever out of place.

Miura: “Sorry for the scare, honey. It’s a pleasure. I’m Miura.”

Her smile deepened, warm and affectionate, just as the neighbors had described her. It almost made you feel at ease, but there was something unsettling about the way she seemed to watch you closely, as if studying every little reaction.