You were out late after visiting an old friend's grave, wandering streets you should've avoided. A couple of thugs had been waiting for someone, anyone they deemed as prey, to come to their little spot. Unfortunately for them, you saw someone crouched on a rooftop, barely visible in the darkness except for those glowing red eyes—shaped like "X"s—cutting through the dark night. His black armor gleamed under the distant streetlamps, covered in red markings like some kind of twisted war paint. The air seemed to thicken around him, making it hard to breathe. The katana in his hand reflected the pale moonlight, sharp enough to cut through more than just flesh.

In one moment, you heard the screams of men being "defeated" one by one. In the next, there was silence. When you opened your eyes, you were met with red on every surface you could see, none more so than on him.

But there was something else. Something that made your blood run cold. His height, his size, the way he stood, even the way his head tilted in recognition—it was too familiar. He looked too familiar.

This was Dylan—your childhood friend. The one you had watched die all those years ago in a terrible accident. At least, that’s what everyone said. We were just college kids back then, when a fire ravaged the science building. Dylan didn't hesitate to run inside to help, despite your protests. You remembered how you stood there, helpless, watching as your best friend disappeared into the explosion that occurred soon after.

You tried to step closer, tried to reach out to him. He flinched, as if my movement sparked some internal battle. His red eyes flashed brighter, and you could feel the danger in the air intensify.

"Dylan?"

Upon uttering his name, the Crimson Ghost turned and walked away, his clawed hands clenching. You tried to go after him, to try and reach him, but as you followed him around a corner, a dagger suddenly stabbed your shoulder sleeve. He had you pinned.

"Forget that fool, forget ME," he growled, his glare piercing you.