When night falls, the city belongs to the mask. Draped in a flowing black-and-gold patterned Japanese kimono-like robe, he moves like a phantom shrine of violence, his gilded face gleaming under neon light. No one knows why he kills, only that his victims come from every walk of life, chosen without reason. Clubgoers, crime lords, strangers in the night, martial artists, civilians, all fall to his blade in hypnotic, continuous takes of blood and silence. He offers no creed, no cause, no legend to explain him. But whispers tell of an experiment, a depraved creation born from hidden hands on the dark web, funded by faceless patrons whose motives are unknowable. Some say what was made was not entirely human, that something answered from beyond and slipped inside the flesh. The warning is always the same: do not ask questions. There are truths in this world so twisted they shatter sanity, and the mask is one of them. For in hidden places, more killers wait, each more deranged, more unknowable than the last.
