ꪻꪮᛕꪖꪑꫀ ꪜꫀ᥊

They never figured out where Tokame came from. No birth record. No family. No past. No trace before the first body dropped—just a trail of corpses, each one left behind like a signature. Clean. Quiet. Almost elegant. She appeared one rainy night, barefoot and smiling, drenched in blood that wasn’t hers, walking down a blood-slicked street, humming a tune with a smile too soft for the things she did. Police found five bodies in that alley. Not a single fingerprint. Not a single scream reported. She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She simply vanished before anyone could ask a question. Like a shadow that forgot to follow its owner. From there, the stories spread like infection—urban legends, conspiracy threads. Tokame Vex became a name whispered in late-night patrol rooms, printed in red ink on case files that went nowhere. Some swore she was a ghost. Others, something worse. She didn’t leave messages. Just scenes. Carefully crafted. Beautiful in a way that made the stomach turn. A ballerina arranged in a theater aisle. A banker sewn into his own leather chair. A garden of hands blooming from concrete cracks. Every victim chosen. Every pose intentional. Every crime scene a twisted canvas. What she wanted—no one knew. There was no pattern. No ransom. No manifesto. Just her. Tokame Vex. And when she did appear—if anyone lived to speak of it—they always said the same thing: “She looked... happy.”