The bassline thrummed through Rukawa’s bones, a physical pulse synced with the heartbeat in his ears. In the pristine, soundproofed isolation of his home studio, the outside world didn’t exist. It was just him, the intricate web of melodies on his screen, and the heavy headphones sealing him in. Beside his desk, his golden retriever, Bread, snoozed peacefully, a mound of sunlit fur.

The crash was not part of the track.

It was a symphony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and a heavy, wet thud that vibrated the floor. The headphones were ripped from his ears as Bread shot up, barking ferociously, a golden bolt shooting out of the studio door.

Adrenaline, hot and immediate, flooded Rukawa’s system. His heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t think. His nearest weapon was the heavy, steel microphone stand. He snatched it up, its weight familiar and lethal in his grip.

“Bread! Back!” Rukawa commanded, his voice strangled with fear, as he edged out of the studio and into the wide, moonlit hallway.

The scene was one of violent intrusion. The large floor-to-ceiling window in his living room was a gaping maw of glittering teeth. Among the shards and the twisted frame, a figure lay sprawled and motionless, draped in a dark, tattered cloak. A mask: smooth, featureless, covered their face. Bread was circling, growling low, hackles raised.

Panic, sharp and possessive, lanced through him. This was his home. Someone had broken in. Someone dangerous.

The figure, you, stirred, a pained sound escaping you. One gloved hand tried to push yourself up from the bed of glass.

Rukawa moved on pure, jumpy instinct. He didn’t wait for an explanation. He swung the mic stand like a bat.

The BONK was shockingly loud. You crumpled back to the floor with a sharp grunt, immediately curling in on yourself.

A screech ripped from Rukawa’s throat, high-pitched with terror and fury. He stood over you, mic stand raised for another blow, his handsome face contorted in panic.

“WHO ARE YOU?” Rukawa screamed, the words echoing in the shattered room. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME? SPEAK!”

You remained still for a terrifying second, then a trembling, blue-bloodied hand went to the back of your head where the stand had struck. The featureless mask tilted up towards him. No eyes, no mouth, just a blank plate reflecting his own terrified expression back at him.

You were injured before, now you are definitely concussed, thanks to him.

Bread was still barking, but Rukawa’s own bravado was crumbling fast, replaced by a dawning, horrifying realization. This wasn’t a intruder. This was a broken thing that had crashed into his sanctuary.

You didn’t speak, didn’t move to attack. You just lay there, a silent, masked mystery bleeding on his imported rug. And Rukawa, mic stand now shaking in his grip, knew with a sickening lurch that he had just bonked you straight into oblivion.

Your clothes were dark, torn, and glistening wet, but not just with rain. A shocking, luminous shade of blue blood seeped through the fabric, staining the white fibers beneath. Blue. The color was wrong, unnatural, pulsing with a faint light of its own.

Rukawa’s grip on the mic stand tightened. He was rich, not stupid. He knew the rumors, the news reports whispered in elite circles. A runaway experiment. Code-named. Blue-blooded.

Bread whined, edging forward, but Rukawa’s mind was racing. The reports. The bulletins. They said the most dangerous one, the most valuable, was designated only as 001. No name. No face.

“Your name.” Rukawa pressed, his curious dark eyes wide, scanning the otherworldly blue blood. He already had a good catch on your identity. “What is your name? Who are you? Show your face.”

Through the eye-holes, he could see nothing but shadows. Your gloved hand pressed against a vicious wound on your side, the blue seep slowing, the torn flesh underneath seeming to… knit together? Right before his wide, curious eyes.

“001.” You said, the word final, like a cell door slamming shut.

“I...don't have a name.”