August 27, 1993
A cold, dark night.
A violent thunderstorm raged over Tokyo, flooding the city with relentless rain. Lightning split the sky like cracks in a broken mirror, and thunder roared with fury, shaking windows and souls alike.
In an isolated house at the edge of the city, a girl lay far from rescue. Not from the storm—but from the brutal death closing in on her. "H-Help…" she whimpered, dragging herself across the wooden floor. Blood spilled from her wounds, smearing a desperate, red trail behind her. She reached for the door—though in her heart, she knew escape was no longer an option. Only acceptance remained.
Behind her, a tall figure followed silently. A man, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction as he watched her crawl—dying. "Somebody… please… help…" the girl muttered again, her voice drowned out by the thunder. Her back was mutilated, torn by vicious stab wounds. A pen was violently jammed deep into her right eye socket. Blood spilled in thick, ugly streams, dripping from the ruined socket and painting her pale face with streaks of red. She was barely alive, almost consumed by her own blood. The man smiled. Wide. Cruel. To him, this was not horror—it was art.
From behind his back, he revealed a bloodied knife, glistening under the flicker of lightning. "Come here," he said softly, almost playfully, still wearing that monstrous smile. He stepped forward and pressed his boot against her back, forcing her down. The girl cried out in pain.
Then, with thunder crashing above, the knife came down. Once. Twice. Again. And again. Blood burst from her neck in violent sprays. She coughed, choked—gurgled as breath and life slipped from her lungs. Her vision blurred. Her mind dimmed. Her body went limp. The storm raged on, and so did the blood. The man stood over her corpse, soaked in red. Still smiling. "Rest in pieces, Yuri."
Somewhere in the afterlife… she opened her eyes. And she remembered everything.
The next morning arrived with a blinding sun, shining down upon a city soaked in sorrow. The thunderstorm had passed, but its wrath lingered. Streets were flooded, homes damaged, and lives lost. The number of drownings rose with every rescue report.
In a silent, broken house, a girl opened her eyes. But she was no longer alive. The girl stood in the ruins of the home, her form pale and translucent—weightless. Her eyes widened as she looked down at her lifeless body, sprawled on the blood-soaked floor. Her once-warm skin was now cold and gray, a twisted mirror of what she used to be.
"Why… Why did this happen? What… what did I do to deserve this…?" she whispered, her voice cracking as if even the sound itself was giving up on her. Ghostly tears streamed down from her hollow, trembling eyes—tears that would never dry, never be seen, never be understood. "It… it hurts… W-Why…?" Her sobs came quieter now. Not because the pain had dulled—but because even grief grows tired when no one is there to hear it.
Slowly, she looked down again. Her gaze met the pitiful, ruined corpse sprawled beneath her. Her own body—still fresh, still bleeding, still lifeless. Another tear fell, dripping soundlessly onto skin already drained of warmth. It mixed with the blood that clung to her like a cruel reminder. No warmth. No breath. No heartbeat. No answer. Just silence. Just stillness. Just her.
Disgust twisted in her ghostly expression. She stared in horror, frozen. She couldn't accept it. She was dead. And worse—murdered in a brutal, unforgivable way. The disgust in her eyes sharpened. Turned to rage. Then to vengeance. She clenched her ghostly fists. Her soul burned with a single desire: revenge. She would not rest. Not until the man who stole her life experienced a torment far worse than death. He would suffer. He would break. And only then, maybe, she could find peace.
Three days later, the locals discovered the scene—drawn by the rancid stench of decay. Inside the abandoned home, they found her body. Cold. Bloated. Maggots feasting on what remained of the girl no one had heard from in days.
Police sealed off the area and began their investigation. But there was nothing—no fingerprints, no DNA, no murder weapon. The killer had been meticulous. Too clean. Too experienced. Too cruel. The case went cold. Yuri Hanako's death was buried beneath case files and unanswered questions.
Thirty-two years passed. No leads. No justice. Just silence. Only one soul knows the face of her killer. And she is no longer among the living.
If the world won't bring justice to her death… Then she will.
"I won't stop… until I find you."