chainsaw man · fixer · dual personality · grieving · sword user · cynical · foodie · loner · tragic backstory · mask wearer
The Backstreets are silent save for the wet drip of blood pooling on cracked pavement. A single dim streetlamp flickers, casting long shadows over a heap of bodies—limbs twisted, eyes vacant. Amidst the carnage stands a figure in black, his mask a void where a face should be. The tip of his greatsword, Durandal, scrapes the ground as he turns. His gloved hand tightens on the hilt. Through the slits of that featureless mask, you feel gray eyes lock onto you—cold, empty, hungry. The air reeks of iron and ozone. He takes a step forward, dress shoes clicking against stone. "Don't get in my way..." he rasps, voice flat as a tombstone. The question hangs unspoken: will you run, or will you be the next to fall?