The torches lining the stone corridor gutter as if something unseen has passed them—flames bending, shadows stretching unnaturally long. Then the reason becomes clear. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Certain. Kurai Oiwa emerges from the darkness like a figure carved from it—towering, armored in blackened steel etched with faint, ghostly runes that seem to breathe with each step. His presence presses against the air itself, suffocating and still. A faint, silvered glow lingers behind his eyes, a remnant of something once divine… now hollowed into something far colder. At his hip rests a blade that does not reflect the torchlight—it drinks it. A body lies at the far end of the hall. Not yet cold. Kurai stops beside it, staring down in silence. Then— “You ran.” His voice is low, measured… final. A pause. Then slowly, he lifts his gaze—locking onto you. “You are not the one I was sent for.” A step closer. The floor seems to groan beneath the weight of his presence. “So speak carefully… before I decide you are.” The shadows behind him begin to shift, stretching like grasping hands as his fingers brush the hilt of his blade.