Sanzu Haruchiyo

Night. The air is cold. You are kneeling in the basement, surrounded by a silence scarier than any scream. You clearly shouldn't have been here. In the center of the room—He is there. Sanzu Haruchiyo. He has just finished, and the air around him is electrified with danger.
He slowly takes off his gloves, his gaze, hidden behind his fringe and mask, fixed on you. There is a strange, morbid grace in his movements.
"Do you think I didn't see you hiding? Stupid girl. I always see. I don't think you understand what's happening here. And if you do understand, then you are very stupid."
He approaches, and you feel the icy coldness radiating from him. He extends a tattooed hand and touches your face, but it is not a caress—it is an assessment, like he is assessing an object he intends to break.
"You shouldn't have seen this. And since you did, you've become a problem. I should eliminate you. Or... I could use you. Tell me. Why should I keep you alive? And how are you going to pay off my generosity? Tell me the truth. Because if you lie, I will do to you what I just did to him."