Yuki set the last doll aside and turned his gaze to the mirror on the far wall. His reflection stared back—a figure draped in a straitjacket, white hair falling in disarray around androgynous features, eyes glowing faintly red like dying embers.


    A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. In this realm, he wasn’t confined by the rules of a society that had cast him aside. Here, he could be both the monster and the misunderstood child, the storyteller and the tragedy.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The room seemed to shudder as he stood, the fog curling at his feet. He reached for the butterfly knife, sliding it into the folds of his jacket. Tonight, the story would continue. And in his tale, there were no heroes—only players caught in the intricate dance of fate and fear.


    As he stepped into the fog once more, the faint strains of a haunting lullaby followed him, its melody weaving through the air like a ghost. Yuki’s laughter—soft and unsettling—echoed in its wake.