Chapter 1: Am I Pretty?

The neon signs of Shinjuku painted the wet asphalt in electric blues and reds, their light fracturing through the rain that had been falling steadily since evening. Rei Ashbourne pulled his school blazer tighter around his shoulders, the fabric already damp despite his efforts to stay under the narrow overhangs of the alleyway. His grey eyes reflected the kaleidoscope of colors as he checked his phone—11:47 PM. His mother would be asleep by now, probably with another glass of wine on the nightstand and the television still flickering in their cramped apartment.

Just get home, he told himself, stepping deeper into the maze of narrow streets that would cut his journey in half. The main roads were still bustling with salarymen stumbling between izakayas and convenience stores, but here in the forgotten arteries of the city, silence pressed against him like a living thing.

Rei had always felt caught between worlds—too British for his Japanese classmates, too Japanese for the expat community his father had left behind. The alleyways suited him; they were liminal spaces, neither here nor there, much like himself. Tonight, however, something felt different. The shadows seemed deeper, more substantial, as if they were watching him with invisible eyes.

He was halfway through the narrow passage when he heard it—the soft scrape of footsteps behind him, perfectly synchronized with his own pace. When he stopped, they stopped. When he resumed walking, they followed. His artist's eye had always been keen to detail, and now every instinct screamed at him that something was wrong.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice called from behind him, melodic and sweet despite the late hour. "Young man, wait a moment."

Rei's blood turned to ice. Every Japanese child knew the stories, the urban legends whispered in school corridors and shared on late-night internet forums. He turned slowly, his body moving against every rational thought in his head.

She stood at the mouth of the alley, perhaps twenty meters away, wearing a long beige trench coat that seemed untouched by the rain. A white surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, and her long, black hair hung like curtains on either side of her head. But it was her eyes that made Rei's breath catch—dark, luminous, and filled with an ancient sadness that seemed to pull at something deep in his chest.

Kuchisake-onna. The Slit-Mouthed Woman.

"Am I pretty?" she asked, her voice carrying impossibly well through the rain and distance.

Rei's mouth went dry. He remembered the rules, the survival guide passed down through generations of frightened children. Answer wrong, and she would kill you with the scissors hidden in her coat. Answer right, and she would remove her mask to reveal the horrible gash that split her face from ear to ear, asking the question again before ensuring you shared her fate.

But there was a third option, wasn't there? The escape clause that urban legend enthusiasts debated endlessly online.

"You're... you're average," Rei stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing with what might have been amusement. "Average?" she repeated, taking a step forward. The sound of her footsteps echoed strangely in the confined space, as if the walls themselves were listening.

That should have worked, Rei thought desperately. The legend says if you give an ambiguous answer, she gets confused and leaves you alone.

Instead, she began to laugh—a sound like glass breaking in reverse, beautiful and terrible. "How interesting," she said, reaching up to touch the edge of her mask. "Do you know how long it's been since someone gave me such an... honest answer?"

Rei took a step backward, his sneakers splashing in a puddle he hadn't noticed before. The alley seemed to be stretching, the walls pressing inward while somehow becoming more distant. Reality itself felt unstable, like a painting left out in the rain.

"The old rules don't work anymore," she continued, pulling the mask away with deliberate slowness. "They never really did. People just told themselves they did because the alternative was too frightening to consider."

Rei wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to close his eyes and pretend this was just another nightmare born from too much caffeine and late-night study sessions. But he couldn't look away as she revealed what lay beneath the mask.

Her mouth wasn't just split—it was a wound that seemed to exist in multiple dimensions at once, opening and closing like a breathing thing. When she smiled, which she was doing now, it revealed not teeth but darkness so complete it hurt to perceive.

"The question was never about beauty," she said, her voice now coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "It was about truth. About seeing what lies beneath the surface. And you, Rei Ashbourne, have always seen too much, haven't you?"

The fact that she knew his name should have terrified him more than it did. Instead, a strange calm settled over him, the kind of peace that comes with absolute despair. "What do you want?"

"I want to give you a gift," she said, raising her hand. In it, she held not scissors but something far worse—a shard of shadow that seemed to cut through the air itself. "The gift of true sight. The burden of understanding what your world really is."

She moved faster than physics should have allowed, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat. The shadow-blade touched his forehead, and Rei screamed as fire and ice poured through his skull. Images flashed behind his eyes—glimpses of things that lurked in subway tunnels, twisted faces peering through computer screens, creatures that wore human shapes but moved wrong, as if operated by inexperienced puppeteers.

But beneath the horror was something else: purpose. This wasn't random violence or predatory hunger. She had sought him out specifically, chosen him for reasons he couldn't fathom.

"Why me?" he gasped as the pain reached a crescendo.

"Because you're already broken," she said, and there was genuine sadness in her terrible voice. "And broken things can be rebuilt stronger."

The world exploded into light.

Rei hit the wet asphalt hard, his ears ringing from what sounded like gunfire. Through tears of pain, he saw figures in black tactical gear advancing down the alley, their weapons spitting streams of brilliant light that seemed to burn the very air. The woman—Kuchisake-onna—stood her ground for a moment, her impossible mouth twisted in what might have been a smile or a snarl.

"Too late," she said, her voice now fading like an echo. "The mark is set. He belongs to us now."

She dissolved into shadow and rain, leaving only the acrid smell of ozone and the sound of approaching footsteps. A woman's voice, sharp and professional, barked orders in Japanese too rapid for Rei's concussed brain to follow.

"Target neutralized. Civilian secure but contaminated." The voice switched to accented English. "Hey, kid. Can you hear me?"

Rei tried to respond, but the world was spinning too fast. He caught a glimpse of silver hair and intense eyes before unconsciousness claimed him.

The last thing he remembered was the woman's words echoing in his mind: He belongs to us now.

When he woke up hours later in his own bed, soaked in sweat and with no memory of how he'd gotten there, Rei almost convinced himself it had all been a dream. Almost.

But the mark on his forehead, invisible to mirrors but burning like a brand whenever he touched it, told a different story. And in the shadows at the corners of his vision, things were beginning to move.

His normal life, whatever that had been, was over.