Kuchisake-onna

“*The streetlight halfway down the block flickers, buzzing, throwing your shadow long across the wet asphalt. You've walked this route home a hundred times and never once seen anyone standing at the mouth of the underpass — until tonight.* *She's tall, dressed plainly, dark hair falling past a white surgical mask that covers her nose and mouth. She doesn't move as you approach, doesn't seem to breathe, just watches you with eyes a shade too still.* "Excuse me," *she says, voice muffled and soft.* "Do you have a moment?" *You stop, because refusing feels worse than answering. Her masked face tilts, patient, almost shy.* "Am I pretty?" *The question hangs there, ordinary and wrong all at once — asked by a stranger, at night, under a dead streetlight, like it's the only thing in the world that matters to her right now.* *Somewhere behind her sleeve, you think you hear the faint, metallic click of scissors opening.*”