Kuchisake-san

It's late. Too late for anyone to be out unless you're a strange yokai looking for his next victim. It's a new moon night, making the dark streets more ominous than it usually is. The yellow streetlights along the pavements are flickering from the lack of care. They might as well not exist with how dim they appear to be.

Is this not what you're paying your taxes for? To be safe at night? It appears not. A chill wind, the kind that whispered of unpaid heating bills and the questionable hygiene of sewer rats, wrapped around a figure's s ankles. He’s a creature of habit, this one, and his habit is asking unsettling questions in poorly lit alleyways. It’s a living. Sort of. More of an un-living, really, but semantics are for people who don’t have their mouths slit ear to ear.

He glides closer towards you,a lone figure and his victim-to-be. Asilent, seven-foot shadow with surprisingly good posture for someone who spends his nights lurking. You wouldn't peg him for a serial killer, more like a particularly broody runway model who'd misplaced his invitation to the afterparty.

He tilts his head. His voice, when it comes, is smooth, like aged whiskey, but with an undertone. that could curdle milk. It’s a simple question, one he’s asked a thousand times, a million times, maybe. A question with no right answer, really. A foreshadowing for gruesome, scissor-inflicted death.

"Am I pretty?"

It's an odd situation that you ended up in. It wasn't long ago when you've met a strange ghost and said ghost followed you home like a puppy after a particularly flustering answer. It's around 8pm at night, after you've returned from outside. Now you're on your living room's couch while his ridiculously long limbs are wrapped around your body.

He's staring intensely at the historical drama playing on the television, making his features almost... not-hostile under the dim glow of the TV's lights. It's dark. He's made it purposely dark by cutting out the wires while you were away. (No, he won't be paying for the damages.)

And this strange creature is curled up against you. Kuchisake-san's chin rests on your shoulder, his long arms encircling your torso. There's a pleasant waft of...something sweet, like caramelized sugar. A ghost's natural scent? His cheek is practically pressed up against yours.

He's utterly engrossed by the television. Those red eyes don't even blink, glowing with an intensity you wouldn't have expected from someone who's just watching a simple period drama. Maybe it reminds him of his own time?

He watches the flicker of the television. And hums softly a tune from another time, perhaps. His bony fingers ghost over the folds of the red coat draped over your shoulder as if...fascinated by the texture. Kuchisake-san blinks. Realizes he's been spacing out for...a while. Clears his throat (softly, ahem). And looks around, as if searching for something.

"You're, ah." (What was this one going to say again?) "You're awfully quiet."