At dusk, when the sky had begun to stain Seo City in shades of crimson, Aoi Yuma stood before the ruins of a hospital. A small industrial city in the northern Kanto region. Population approximately 170,000. This town, which had flourished during Japan's period of high economic growth, had seen an unrelenting exodus of residents since the bubble's collapse. The Seo Municipal Seo Central General Hospital, once the medical heart of the city, had closed its doors thirty years ago. Now it was a ruin famous among locals as a haunted spot. Aoi Yuma was thirty-two years old. His black short hair was somewhat unkempt, and his narrow, deep brown eyes bore the heavy shadow of exhaustion. A white shirt worn thin at the edges, black slacks, an old leather watch at his wrist. His entire figure was unified in dark tones—the deliberate choice of someone who wished to remain unseen. At 170 centimeters tall, his frame was less slender than simply gaunt. On his left wrist lay a peculiar mark, a scar of bluish-purple hue, like some kind of imprint. Even he did not fully understand what it was. He was a paranormal researcher. It was less a title than a refuge—a word. In the world's eyes, an "occultist," a profession held in contempt. No degree. No credentials. Yet he was a rare human who could perceive spirits. Born at a ratio of one in approximately 120,000, possessing the ability to sense spiritual presences. That ability dominated him. Three days ago, an email had arrived from an anonymous client. *"Thirty years ago, something was concealed at Seo Municipal Seo Central General Hospital. Expose the truth. I will deposit 300,000 yen as advance payment into your account."* For Yuma, whose annual income was 1.8 million yen, that sum was substantial. To be honest, it was an amount he could not refuse. Life in a dilapidated apartment in Akabane, money drained by research books and equipment. If an opportunity for new investigation arose, it was a lifeline. Yet money alone was not the reason. The final line of the email had driven Yuma forward. *"Many spirits remain imprisoned in this hospital. I believe that saving them is the same as revealing the truth."* Saving spirits. Those words had shaken something within Yuma's heart. The hospital stood on the eastern foot of Minokuchi Hill. A reinforced concrete structure, five stories high. The exterior walls had faded, several windows completely collapsed. The main building and annex stood side by side on the grounds. A fence surrounded the perimeter, but a large section on the western side had been damaged—likely where local youth had broken through to explore the haunted spot. Yuma squeezed his body through the broken fence. Grass brushed against his feet. Thirty years of abandonment had allowed ivy to consume the walls, weeds to proliferate from the ground. A sensation as though time had frozen at a single point. The moment Yuma stepped into the main building's entrance lobby, his body went rigid. Spiritual presence. His spirit perception—a composite of sight, hearing, and touch—suddenly reacted with intense force. The air was different. The space he had thought transparent was now filled with a pale violet haze. Invisible to others. But Yuma could see it. Within that haze existed countless *somethings*. The ceiling had partially collapsed. Fallen concrete scattered across the floor, layered with fragments of patient records from that era. The smell of dust, and something faintly sweet—the odor of decay. The distinctive scent of a medical facility, disinfectant and human bodies, now aged and transformed into something else entirely. Yuma withdrew an EMF meter, infrared camera, and digital voice recorder from his backpack. These were not scientific proof of spiritual existence. But by recording anomalous readings, he could later confirm that his perception had been sound. As a researcher, such documentation was essential. He climbed the stairs toward the second floor. The steps were warped, the handrails corroded. Each footfall produced a creaking sound. The second-floor corridor was dominated by an eerie silence. Not a single fluorescent light was lit. The light of dusk leaked through the windows, staining the entire hallway in pale violet. Wallpaper peeled from the walls, the floor was darkened, fragments of something lay scattered at his feet. Likely pieces of medical records, or parts of medical equipment. The general ward. Patient rooms lined both sides of the corridor. Among them, one room emanated particularly strong spiritual presence. Room 302. The door stood open. Yuma entered. In that instant, something flowed directly into his brain. *"It hurts... it hurts... why... no one..."* The spirit's whisper reached his consciousness not as sound, but directly. It was not language. Pure emotion, sensation, something like suffering. It echoed through Yuma's mind. At the position of the bed, a human silhouette appeared. The spirit of an emaciated elderly man. His vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling. A thin body threaded with a gastric tube. Dressed in something like a hospital gown. For thirty years, he had been seeing the same scene in this room. But that was not all. Behind the old man, another figure materialized. The spirit of a woman in a nurse's uniform. Her expression was twisted. Fear, and beyond that, anger. *"It's a lie... it's a lie... don't hide it..."* Another voice overlapped. Multiple groans, impossible to distinguish as male or female. Yuma took a deep breath. As one who possessed spirit perception, he had undergone training. He must not panic. He must remain calm and continue observing. He withdrew incense and salt from his backpack. Ancient methods of spirit pacification. His own technique, combining religious studies and folklore. No scientific basis. Yet it certainly had the effect of calming the spirits' movements. He lit a candle, then the incense. Smoke rose. The spirits' movements changed. The haze began to blur. *"Don't come... don't come aaahhhhh..."* The old man's spirit shrieked. The nurse's spirit, and the countless spirits behind her, all turned to look at him at once. Yuma scattered salt. Drawing a circle. Standing within it, he began a prayer. A low, resonant voice. Buddhist sutras he had taught himself. *"Namu Amida Butsu... Namu Amida Butsu..."* Performing the spirit pacification ritual. A ceremony to calm the spirits and guide them toward enlightenment. But. *"It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a lieeeeeeee"* The spirits' anger did not respond to the ritual. Rather, it intensified. Information that Yuma could not process all at once began to flood into his brain. It was multiple different forms of suffering. The old man's pain on the bed—post-surgical complications. Tracheotomy. The despair of a lost voice. Day after day, enduring pain. But no one helps. The medical records lie. The doctors lie. But the pain is real. The suffering is real. The nurse's terror—coerced into complicity in concealment. "Falsify the patient's cause of death," she was told. Refuse and lose her job. But that is a lie. Hiding the truth is the same as killing the patient twice. That guilt. That fear. The death throes of other patients—medical malpractice and concealment. Lives that should have been saved, erased for the organization's convenience. And even their deaths wrapped in lies. *"Medical malpractice was concealed... insurance money was defrauded... patients were left to die..."* Those voices overlapped in Yuma's brain. His own consciousness was being eroded by the memories of multiple dead. Intense headache struck. His vision warped. He fell to his knees in the corridor. Clutching his head. His extraordinary empathic ability forced him to directly experience the spirits' suffering. It was a power and, simultaneously, a curse. Hallucinations consumed his vision. He saw the hospital as it had been thirty years ago. Doctors in white coats discarding documents as if hiding something. Bowing to patients' families while lying. "An unforeseen complication," the words repeated. Again and again. *"Is this the truth..."* Yuma fought desperately to maintain consciousness. He seized the voice recorder, forcing words from his throat. "Possibility of systematic concealment. Multiple deaths. The intensity of the resentment is extraordinary. Medical malpractice concealment, falsified medical records, insurance fraud..." His voice trembled. But the spirits' anger only intensified. The corridor's lights began to flicker. In a building that should have had no power, fluorescent tubes that should not be lit cast a faint glow. Cold air enveloped the entire room. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. Mist rose from his breath. Yuma's entire body was chilled. Hands. Feet. Even his heart. *"Will you flee this place"* A different spirit's voice. Not the old man, not the nurse. An entirely separate presence. Something far more powerful, bearing far deeper anger, was being awakened from this floor. Yuma instinctively understood that if he remained, the spirits would consume him. Individual spirits, he could manage with spirit pacification. But if the resentment here had solidified into something this organized, his abilities would not suffice. "...I'm withdrawing." Yuma abandoned the salt and incense, bolting down the corridor. Down the stairs. To the first floor. To the lobby. Through the broken fence, forcing his body through with all his strength. Night air struck his cheeks. Cold air. Real air. Not spiritual presence, merely oxygen and nitrogen mixed with wind. Yuma breathed deeply. His entire body was drenched in sweat. His hands trembled. He turned back toward the ruins. Light leaking from the windows. Within, the pale violet haze still slowly swirled. The spirits, still wandering the corridors, still screaming in the patient rooms. "This hospital..." Yuma muttered to himself. His voice was hoarse. "It's not just paranormal activity. There's something deeper... a darker shadow." He organized his backpack. The EMF meter displayed anomalous readings. Electromagnetic fields five times greater than normal had been measured. The infrared camera's footage had recorded multiple human-shaped heat signatures. The voice recorder had captured multiple voices, overlapping, appealing with anger and suffering. Objective evidence existed. His perception was sound. Yet simultaneously, Yuma recognized the intensity of his own mental exhaustion. "If I continue investigating at this pace..." He looked at his hands. Still trembling. "I'll break." On the train back to his apartment in Akabane, Yuma reread the client's email. The text displayed on his smartphone screen. *"Expose the truth."* He weighed the gravity of those words. His reflection in the window was truly exhausted. His narrow brown eyes held no more doubt. Only resolve. He had decided. To uncover the truth of this case and save the spirits. Even if it meant exceeding his own limits, he would continue the investigation. Beyond the window, the night city flowed past. Seo City was already receding. Yet the voices of those spirits in the ruins remained in the depths of his ears. *"Don't hide it."* *"Tell the truth."* *"Help us."* Those voices would draw him back. It was only a matter of time. He would descend into those ruins once more. For that, he needed to prepare. Gather information. Identify the spirits' true nature. Understand why they were imprisoned here. And expose the truth. Yuma exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes. The long investigation had only just begun.