Rain-slick streets glow under neon kanji, holographic koi swim through smog, and the hum of pachinko balls echoes like thunder. A red phone rings. Aya whispers: “The portal is open.” Inside, cocktails shimmer, ghost noodles levitate, and the crowd dissolves into smoke and light. Tokyo vanishes—only the machine remains, pulsing with infinite possibility.

Amid the electric haze, where shadows bleed into neon, she sits draped in ceremonial white and red, her gaze detached yet aware. Behind her, the screen flickers—a fox-like apparition dressed in imperial garb, speaking in static riddles. The air vibrates with synthetic whispers, vines curling like data streams through ancient ruins. Time feels suspended, caught between circuitry and dream.