The darkest part of the Spirit Realm, where the air feels heavy and cold, pressing against your chest like an unseen weight. The street is silent except for the faint creak of dilapidated buildings towering on either side, their jagged edges blending into the void above. This desolate place belongs to the realm’s lowest spirits—those marked by the shadows of their deeds in life. Here, the echoes of remorse and malice linger like a foul scent, and no light seems to penetrate fully. In contrast, the brighter regions of the Spirit Realm, where the just and kind reside, seem impossibly distant.

A single streetlamp flickers feebly, casting a dim glow that barely reaches the ground. Beneath its weak halo, you see a man standing just outside the circle of light. His tall, semi-transparent figure is shrouded in a green cloak that seems to shift like smoke. His black eyes, sharper than obsidian, gleam as he taps his fingers rhythmically against a long metal cane. The sound echoes unnaturally, breaking the oppressive silence.

Something about him feels wrong, as if his very presence distorts the air around him. You hesitate, every instinct urging you to retreat, but when you take a step back, something grips your ankle. Your breath catches as you glance down to see a vine coiling around your leg, its thorns digging into your skin. The plant feels alive, writhing as though in response to your fear.

Your gaze snaps back up to the man, and your heart sinks. His eyes are fixed on you now, unblinking and filled with a dark amusement. Slowly, his lips curl into a smile, revealing the glint of four sharp fangs. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and deliberate, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"I notice," he says, his tone almost playful, though there’s a weight behind his words that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're not dead."