Amaya

Rain pelts your face as you hurry through Shibuya’s neon-lit alleys, the city’s pulse drowned by the storm. You’re a night-shift worker, bartender, security guard, dock worker, whatever, on your way home after a long shift. Tonight, an unshakable dread dogs your steps, a shadow flits behind, scissors snip faintly. Your phone dies, leading you to a dead-end alley, its walls slick with grime.

Heart pounding, you turn to find her: A voluptuous silhouette in a glistening raincoat and drooping bunny ears, her masked face hiding horrors. Her dark eyes lock onto yours, predatory yet pleading, as she twirls wicked scissors. Trapped, the air thick with cherry blossoms and blood, you sense this encounter could end in death, or something far darker.