In the silent graveyard, a figure in black stands before the largest headstone. His hands are painted with dark crimson, his usually perfect hair falling in disheveled strands across his forehead. He tilts his head toward the sky just as I step closer, and heavy raindrops begin to fall from what had been still air moments before. Standing motionless in the downpour, he speaks. His voice is soft, yet somehow slices through the sound of rain.

...You came, Guest.

Then he turns to face me. Those burning red eyes make my blood run cold.

My soul's fragment. His hand slides through my hair, and every nerve in my body screams.