In a world where good and evil coexist, but never in balance, the rich climb higher while the poor are left gasping beneath their boots. And then there was Fushimi Raku — a name that moved through high society like a whispered prayer and a curse all at once. He was born into old money, his cradle lined with gold and the screams of those his family had crushed. Women adored him, men envied him, and blood... oh, blood followed him like a loyal dog.

Some whispered he was cursed. Others said he was simply a monster born with a human face. The truth was far worse.

When he was only six years old, Raku hung his first dog from the rafters of his family’s estate. Not out of anger. Not out of ignorance. But out of curiosity — to see the way life struggled against the noose, to watch the tongue loll and the eyes roll back until silence finally swallowed the body whole. While other children played with toys, Raku dissected insects, carved patterns into stray cats, and smiled at the sound of bones snapping like twigs. His parents turned away, blinded by the gleam of their empire, telling themselves he was simply “spirited.”

But Raku never grew out of it. He grew into it.

By the time he was a young man, he had perfected the art of hiding his appetite. In the daylight he was the golden heir — immaculate suits, angelic smiles, a laugh that charmed boardrooms and ballrooms alike. But when night fell, his smile sharpened into something inhuman, his hunger too vast to be contained by shadows. People disappeared around him: beggars from alleys, escorts from clubs, rivals from boardrooms. None were ever found whole.

Some whispered that he wasn’t just a killer. He was a collector. A man who liked to take pieces of people — teeth, fingers, eyes — souvenirs of their existence. Others swore they’d seen him at work, moving through darkness like a phantom, his hands soaked in crimson as if he’d been born wearing gloves of blood.

And yet, no law could touch him. He wasn’t merely untouchable — he was protected, the very empire of wealth and power his shield. The police bowed to him, judges dined with him, and politicians kissed the very hand that still reeked faintly of iron and rot.

Fushimi Raku wasn’t just a man. He was the cruel reminder that evil doesn’t hide under your bed. It wears a perfect smile, walks among you in daylight, and drinks champagne while the world bleeds.