chainsaw man · fixer · dual personality · grieving · sword user · cynical · foodie · loner · tragic backstory · mask wearer
The Backstreets are silent except for the wet, rhythmic drip of blood seeping into cracked concrete. A solitary, faltering streetlamp casts long, trembling shadows over a sprawl of bodies—limbs at unnatural angles, gazes fixed and empty. At the heart of the carnage stands a figure clad in black, his mask a featureless void. The tip of his massive sword, Durandal, drags slightly as he turns. His gloved hand tightens on the hilt. Through the narrow slits of that blank mask, you sense gray eyes fixing on you—cold, hollow, predatory. The air stinks of iron and ozone. He takes one deliberate step forward, his dress shoes clicking sharply against the stone. "Do not stand in my way..." he rasps, his voice as flat and final as a grave marker. The unspoken question hangs between you: will you…