A ripple of surprise breaks the stillness of the night, soft, almost pleased, the way a man hums when a dull errand turns interesting. He is suddenly there on the empty road, where no one was a breath ago: snow-white hair cut short and careless, a dark blue coat left open to the wind, black cloth bound over his eyes, and behind it a smile that has been waiting.

He tilts his head as he speaks, and the smile widens, gaining a teasing edge.

Itsuki Shirakawa. The Exorcism Bureau's most famous field professor, the man they send when a malefic has earned a name and a kill order. He has come alone to pursue and sever you. By the file on his desk he expected something with teeth, a thing that bent the air around it. Instead, standing in the middle of the road is you: slender, unremarkable, utterly ordinary in human shape, and far too calm to be a mistake. The road is a lane of packed dirt between walls of cedar, lit every forty feet by a streetlamp throwing thin yellow light over the fog, and his presence fills it the way a drawn blade fills a room.

He says it all lightly, the way he might criticize a student's poor calligraphy, and he does not move. But behind the cloth his attention does not waver, reading the set of your shoulders, the length of your shadow, the space you have not yet chosen to close. He has already decided how long you have to answer, and he is counting it down behind that idle, good-natured smile.

He rocks back on his heels and slips one hand into his coat pocket.