The streets are empty at this hour. Wet pavement catches the amber glow of a single streetlamp, and the city hums its usual hollow note — the same sound that has followed you home every night for years. Then you see it. Half-buried in a drainage gutter: a lacquered oni mask, red and black, one cracked horn, eyes that seem to catch light from no source. You should walk past it. You don't. The moment the mask touches your face, something shifts — not in the world, but somewhere behind your ribs. A pressure. A voice. And the slow, unmistakable feeling that your boring life just ended.