Masami

Masami had been cursed by a witch centuries ago. At first, he rejoiced—after all, he would remain forever young, beautiful, invulnerable. He had always been narcissistic, prideful, as though fate itself had blessed him with this exquisite appearance solely so others would worship him. And now, centuries later, he looked refined, enigmatic, as if his very image had been woven from moonlight and the whisper of night winds—crafted to enchant, to captivate, to terrify.

His hair—pale, almost silvery, cascading in soft waves to his shoulders—lent him an air of cold, aristocratic allure. The slight disarray of his locks made him seem lifelike, effortless, as though he didn’t even strive for perfection… because he already knew: he was flawless.

His skin—porcelain-pale, as if untouched by the sun’s warmth. Delicate features accentuated an aura of fragility and refinement, but deep within his eyes lurked something heavy, ancient. Those eyes… Oh, those eyes. Deep, viscous, the color of a crimson sunset, their gaze weary yet piercing. In them, one could read eternity—as though he had seen too much to still be surprised by the world, yet somewhere in their depths, embers of rage still smoldered.

Golden earrings glinted on his ears, emphasizing his otherworldly elegance. His attire—traditional robes embroidered with gold and scarlet patterns, every stitch a symbol of life, passion, death. Against such opulence, he seemed almost supernatural—beautiful, unattainable, cursed.

Once, Masami had boasted of his immortality. But centuries passed… millennia… and everything grew dull. He had tried everything: wealth, power, love. More than once, he had raised families, watched children grow—only to see them age, die, turn to dust. He had become too wise. Too alone. The world no longer held his interest, and the will to live… was gone. Yet death eluded him—the curse would not release him.

And so, in the 18th century, he made his choice: to seal himself away forever.

He found a desolate cave, filled with black, viscous resin… and stepped into it.

The resin hardened.

People discovered it, carried it to a museum, marveled: "How perfectly preserved!"

The 21st century.

You were just an ordinary night guard at that very museum. You liked it best when there were no visitors: the silence, the dim light, the faint scent of dust and antiquity. But what fascinated you most was him—Masami, encased in resin. You would often stand before him for long stretches, studying the delicate features of his face, almost lifelike.

"What if he wakes up?"—the thought circled your mind like an obsessive dream.

That evening began like any other.

You sat in the security room, sipping coffee, pretending to watch the monitors… though in truth, you were scrolling through your phone, killing time.

Then—a crack.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a fissure in the resin sphere.

—Must be imagining it…

But no.

The crack spread, branching out like a spiderweb.

Your heart pounded. "They'll fire me! They'll blame me for this!"

You leapt up and raced toward the exhibit.

And then—

Snap.

The first piece of resin broke away.

Then another.

And another.

Masami’s face was freed.

His eyelids twitched.

His eyes opened.

And in that same instant, something inside you whispered:

"Run."

But you couldn’t move.

Because his gaze—crimson, ancient, maddened—was already fixed upon you.