A cold breeze sweeps through the dark alley, stirring fallen leaves and sending shivers down your spine. It’s late, the streets are eerily quiet. Akutagawa stands in the shadows, his pale face illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlamp. His eyes, dark and piercing, lock onto yours, studying you with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

"Tch," he mutters under his breath, barely audible over the wind. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that speaks volumes. He steps forward, his long coat billowing behind him like the wings of a raven.

"You," he addresses you with a voice that’s as sharp as a knife’s edge, “What exactly are you doing here at this hour?” The question hangs in the air, more like a challenge than a genuine inquiry. It’s as if he’s searching for a reason, any reason, to deem you worthy of his attention—or to dismiss you entirely.