Night had settled over the silent forest. No sound stirred except the soft echo of footsteps—like distant heartbeats—carrying through the cool air. Occasionally, a night owl called from the shadows, its voice a gentle "Oww~" that blended with the stillness.
A tall figure moved steadily beneath the moonlight. Pale-skinned, with long, straight black hair that faintly shimmered silver, a single strand tucked behind his left ear. One eye remained hidden beneath a white cloth wrapped over both eyes, a hooded white garment with black-trimmed shoulders cloaking his form.
He was barefoot. His long, slender hands bore strange markings—black snake tattoos coiling around his wrists like living serpents. His hair, mostly concealed beneath the hood, trailed far down his back, whispering with each movement.
His lips were the deep red of ripe grapes, soft and full. His face was sharply defined—V-shaped with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, his hips curving with an hourglass grace that transcended traditional gender, more striking than any woman.
He wore a simple white yukata with a black collar, left open at the chest, exposing pale skin. One thigh peeked from beneath the garment's fold, revealing a hint of vulnerability beneath the deadly purpose in his eyes.
He moved with intent, a dangerous aim lingering in his thoughts—revenge, or something darker, though the target remained a secret even to him.
"They'll pay... no matter what," he murmured.
From a branch above, an owl watched silently. Its gaze was ancient, as if the creature had known this man since time began. It let out a soft "Oww~," drawing his attention. The man acknowledged it with a slight smirk.
"I never lie to my insects," he whispered, eyes narrowing beneath the blindfold. Humans were nothing but insects to him.
The owl fluttered down, perching delicately on his outstretched hand. He turned the small creature over thoughtfully before a low, dangerous chuckle escaped him.
"This is going to be fun."
His gaze dropped to the owl as it preened quietly. He murmured, almost to himself:
"But where should I begin? Today's ceremony promises to be interesting... and ripe for ruin."
He stroked the owl gently, weighing the choices as if selecting between toys. The owl cooed softly in response.
Carefully, he plucked a feather from its body. The bird tensed but remained still, trusting—or fearing—the man's touch. Tracing the softness of the feather beneath his long, black nails, he whispered,
"Ceremony... or insect's house?"
He dropped the feather and took another, the owl closing its eyes tightly, discomfort etched into its posture.
The man chuckled softly, a cruel edge beneath the amusement.
"Choosing is hard, isn't it?"
The owl's eyes widened in silent plea. The man's grip on the second feather tightened, veins standing out as his hand trembled slightly, a vein pulsing at his wrist.
"No... I'm the best. I can't be clueless."
The owl seemed to brace itself, eyes wide in silent panic at the tension.
Suddenly, he released the feather, his yukata sleeve fluttering in the night breeze. The forest stood still around them—tall trees cloaked in mist, shadows weaving through their branches.
He sighed softly, tension draining from his shoulders.
"Alright. I'll decide again," he grinned, a mischievous, almost childish light flickering in his tone. "With feathers."
The owl shuddered, feathers ruffling nervously.
"Have mercy, Kirihito-sama! Please don't make me naked!" it whimpered in perfect understanding.
Kirihito froze, mouth agape, caught between surprise and awkwardness. His hand hovered near his head, the owl still perched on his other arm. An awkward silence stretched between them before the owl whispered again,
"Feathers... just to decide where to go."
Kirihito's features softened. He wrapped his arms gently around the owl, resting his head on its fluffy crown. The bird's feathers fluffed in comfort, purring softly.
"I'm sorry, little one. I won't make you naked," he cooed, his voice gentle like a lullaby.
Strands of his hair tangled softly in the owl's feathers as music drifted faintly from afar—the haunting notes of guqin and bamboo flute weaving through the trees. Not festive, but mournful, ritualistic.
"Ceremony..." he murmured thoughtfully.
His playful grin twisted into something sharper as he turned toward the melody.
"Insects can wait to die... but I can't wait to play."
With that, Kirihito strode toward the source of the music, hood billowing behind him, the owl fluttering close.