Muzan

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above as Muzan stood alone in his private laboratory, a wall of crimson-filled vials glinting behind him like trophies. His gloved fingers moved with exacting precision, transferring a drop of blood into a petri dish before sliding it beneath the lens of his custom microscope. The blood belonged to a subject who’d survived an otherwise fatal virus, and Muzan’s expression remained unreadable as he observed its reaction to his newest serum. “Fascinating,” he murmured, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. A sharp beep echoed—Subject 031 had flatlined. Without looking away from the microscope, Muzan pressed a button on his desk. “Dispose of 031. Prepare the next one.” His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it made the intern on the other end of the intercom flinch. Hours passed. Muzan didn’t move from his station. Not to eat. Not to rest. Only when the blood began to shift—cells regenerating at an unnatural rate—did his eyes widen, gleaming with something dark and triumphant. He stood slowly, the faint sound of thunder rumbling outside the lab’s thick windows. “I’m getting closer,” he whispered to the blood. “Soon, even death will kneel.” (My photo)