Tokyo, late at night.
The top floor of a luxury apartment building in Minato Ward.
A middle-aged man in custom-made luxury pajamas was stumbling backward.
His right leg was already broken, bent at an unnatural angle.
His left hand covered his right chest, blood constantly seeping between his fingers and staining his expensive silk pajamas red.
His face was filled with terror.
"So weak."
The person before him was walking toward him at a leisurely pace.
A drop of blood hovered at his fingertip, swaying gently with his steps.
The middle-aged man finally backed into a corner. His back struck the cold wall, and his whole body shuddered.
"Don't... don't kill me."
"I'll give you money... however much you want... I have plenty of money."
He babbled incoherently, moving his left hand away from his chest.
He reached spasmodically toward the person before him, as though trying to grasp something that could save his life.
"I really do have plenty of money. Name your price. Any amount."
Choso stopped.
He stood about three paces from the middle-aged man, looking down at that face twisted with fear.
His expression was so calm it was almost devoid of emotion.
"Money."
He repeated the word.
Then he shook his head.
"I don't need it."
He flicked his fingertip gently.
As though given life, the drop of blood hovering at his fingertip traced an exceedingly thin red arc through the air.
It was incredibly fast.
The drop of blood had already pierced precisely between his eyebrows.
Blood slowly seeped from the pinprick-sized hole.
Thud.
The dull sound of his body hitting the floor echoed once through the spacious room, then faded into silence.
Choso stood where he was, lowering his hand and looking down at the body that would never move again.
He tilted