The feel of the stairs leading underground still lingered in the soles of his shoes. Otori Shuji stood at the back entrance of Café Lunatica after closing, both hands thrust into the pockets of his black civilian jacket. Wednesday night, 10 PM. The streetlamps of Kouga Alley cast their orange glow across the damp asphalt. No one was around. Only the occasional sound of a taxi speeding away on the distant main road reached him. The underground staircase he'd found during his last infiltration. The pale, bluish light seeping up from it. The names of customers carved across the entire wall. And the name of a man who should no longer be in this world. "...Let's do this." He let out a small breath and once again picked the lock on the service entrance. Same method as before, but this time, the moment he touched the door, something felt wrong. The metal knob was abnormally cold. As if he'd grabbed the handle of a freezer — the heat was sucked from his palm in an instant. Slowly, he opened the door. The moment he stepped inside, Otori couldn't help but grimace. The air was heavy. Mixed with a cloying, sweet stench of decay, a chill crawled along the floor. His exhaled breath turned faintly white. The temperature was at least ten degrees lower than outside. And the scene had changed. When he'd broken in before, the tables and chairs had been scattered irregularly. But now, every seat was mechanically aligned, all facing one direction — toward the counter. As if everyone was being forced to look at the same thing. "What the hell is this..." Otori's voice was swallowed by the damp darkness. He pulled a small penlight from his pocket and swept its beam across the interior. The line of light traced the rows of aligned chairs. And then, at the far end — Otori's hand stopped. People were tied to the chairs. One, two, three. All middle-aged men and women. Their arms and torsos were bound to the chairs with hemp rope, leaving them slumped and immobile. Their eyes were closed, but they didn't seem completely unconscious. All three were repeating the same motion. A gesture of trying to drink something from coffee cups pressed against their mouths. The contents of the cups had long since evaporated and dried, yet the muscles of their throats kept repeating the unconscious swallowing motion. Gulp. Gulp. And on their faces — smiles were plastered. Ecstatic, slack, indulgent smiles. The corners of their eyes drooped, their mouths hung loosely open. Expressions steeped in pleasure itself, yet somehow hollow. Something squirmed deep in Otori's chest. (That face—) Memories from fifteen years ago surged back through his mind like a torrent. Amidst the rubble of a burned-out multi-tenant building. His wife's face as she was carried out by firefighters. Back then, she had worn that same smile. A smile utterly detached from the fear of death or pain — terribly calm, peaceful, almost artificial. Otori clenched his teeth, forcing down the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. Stomach acid crept up to his throat. Cold sweat beaded on his palms. "You bastards... what the hell do you think people are?" A low voice of rage leaked out, trembling. That was the moment. From deep within the kitchen, a pale, bluish light pulsed. A cold radiance, like moonlight warped into something sickly. The same light that had seeped from the underground staircase last time. It crawled across the walls and floor, illuminating the interior with an eerie glow. And then — from within the light, three shadows emerged. They walked slowly, maintaining a fixed distance from each other, but with a mechanically precise gait. The first thing he saw was a crimson apron. Next, dark chestnut hair. Large brown eyes. "Mayu... san?" No. Wrong. Otori realized it instantly. They mimicked Hoshino Mayu's form, but the proportions of each body part were subtly distorted. The arms were too long. The tilt of the neck exceeded the range of human motion. And above all — the perfectly symmetrical smiles plastered on their faces. Those weren't expressions. They were masks, affixed. Smiling customer-service dolls. Three of them circled around the counter and stood before Otori. The one in the center, with a flawless service-industry gesture, extended an empty cup. A white ceramic cup. Nothing inside. The doll's mouth moved soundlessly. Welcome — irasshaimase — it greeted him with a voiceless voice. Otori stepped back and reached for the holster at his hip — but reconsidered mid-motion. He'd left his firearm behind. In the first place, he had no idea if lead bullets would even work on products of a cognitive otherworld. He clicked his tongue and instead grabbed an iron frying pan from a kitchen shelf. Heavy. A weight that fit his hand — the weight of reality. "Sorry, but I'll pass on the coffee." Otori swung the frying pan and violently knocked the offered cup aside. The sharp sound of shattering ceramic rang through the shop. The next instant — the katashiro moved. Bending their joints at angles impossible for human muscle, all three closed the distance simultaneously. Fast. Soundless. Only the air was torn apart. Otori reflexively swung the frying pan in a wide horizontal arc. Thwack. A heavy impact. The frying pan struck one in the side of the head, caving its skull in. But — the next moment, the dented area swelled up like clay, restoring itself to the original smiling shape. "Tch...!" Blunt force was useless. He immediately tried to create distance, but another one closing in from the left wrapped its arms around Otori's torso with a sinuous motion. Thin arms. But they tightened with the force of a vise. Creak. An unpleasant sound came from inside his own body. His ribs groaned, and then — crack. Two of them snapped. "Guh, aaaah...!!" Intense pain pierced his side. With every breath, the broken bones stabbed at his internal organs. His vision flickered with flashing lights. Even so, Otori didn't lose consciousness. He clenched his teeth, drowning the pain in rage. (Not yet. I can't fall here, not yet—) Desperately clinging to his fading awareness through the agony of his broken ribs, he caught sight of the remaining two katashiro in the corner of his vision — they were heading toward the bound customers. The dolls swarmed around the customers, placing their hands on their foreheads. It looked as if something, like thin tubes, was siphoning the life force out of them. (Are those bastards using those customers as living feed—) Otori planted his hands on the floor, ignored the searing pain shooting through his broken ribs, and stood up. Then, dragging his feet, he headed toward the middle-aged male customer who seemed in the best condition — a man with a solid build, in his fifties. Unlike the other two, this man still had a faint trace of color in his face. "Sorry about this. Gonna be rough." Otori sank his teeth into the hemp rope binding the man to the chair. He chewed through it. The rope cut the inside of his mouth, and the taste of blood spread. He bit again and again, tearing it apart. Putting in enough force to nearly break his teeth, until finally — snap — the rope gave way. The man's body collapsed from the chair. At the same time, the katashiro's movements halted for an instant. As if sensing their prey escaping, all three turned toward Otori in unison. "Stay back!!" Otori grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him across the floor toward the exit. Five meters. Four meters. Three meters. With every step, the pain in his side bleached his consciousness white, but he didn't stop his feet. From behind, the crawling footsteps of the katashiro closed in. Two meters left. One meter. Otori hurled the man he'd been dragging out the door with all his strength. The man's body tumbled across the damp asphalt. And then — the katashiro stopped dead just before the doorway. As if repelled by an invisible barrier, the three couldn't step even a single pace outside the shop's entrance. They swayed gently in place, and eventually retreated slowly back toward the kitchen. "...Hahh... hahh..." Otori dropped to his knees, breathing raggedly. His broken ribs pressed against his lungs, sending a burning pain through him with every breath. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. —It was then. "...Um." A thin voice came from behind him. Otori turned to see Mayu standing at the kitchen entrance. Her eyes — barely managed to focus. That hollow light was gone, replaced by the eyes of an ordinary person, trembling with fear and confusion. She saw the blood seeping from Otori's broken ribs and drew in a small breath. "I... what have I done..." Mayu's mouth opened and closed, searching for words. Tears spilled from her large brown eyes and traced down her gaunt cheeks. "[crying]It's too late now. It's all... it's all my fault. I kept telling myself it was for someone else's sake, pushing my own feelings onto everyone... The truth is, I was just lonely, I wanted someone to need me, and so I turned to an app like that..." She choked on her own words, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. "No. You were just too kind." Otori lifted his face, twisted with pain, and looked straight at Mayu. "You wanted to protect someone. That's all. But that wish got exploited by something evil. This isn't all your fault." "[sad]Even so... I..." The light vanished from Mayu's eyes once more. Her expression, right before his eyes, shifted back into that vacant smile. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, her consciousness was being ensnared by the otherworld again. "Wait! Mayu-san!" Otori shouted her name and reached out his hand. But the searing pain of his broken ribs stopped his movement. His fingertips grasped at empty air. Mayu slowly tilted her head, wearing an enraptured smile, and was drawn back into the darkness of the kitchen. "...Dammit." Otori knelt on the spot and punched the asphalt with his fist. The cold night air chilled his bloodied knuckles and his broken ribs. Inside the shop, two customers were still imprisoned. But in his current state — he couldn't go back. ――― He searched the pockets of the middle-aged man's coat where he lay on the street and found a wallet. With trembling fingers, he checked inside. Driver's license. Tanabe Kazuo. Fifty-eight years old. Otori recalled the list of names carved into the wall during his previous infiltration. Tanabe's name had been there for two weeks. For at least that long, he had been inside that shop, his life force drained away while wearing a smile. Tanabe's breathing was weak. His complexion was sallow. Left on the street like this, he wouldn't last more than a few hours. With a bitter expression, Otori took out his cell phone. If he dialed 119, his solo investigation would be exposed. All the work he'd painstakingly continued, defying the organization, enduring the ridicule of being called the Occult Section Chief — it would all be for nothing. But—. "...The truth only exists at the scene. But a scene where I stand by and watch people die — that's not my scene." He made an anonymous 119 call, placed the wallet beside Tanabe, and hid himself in the shadows of the alley. From the distance, the siren of an ambulance drew near. ――― Tanabe Kazuo was transported to Tamanoi General Hospital in Setagaya Ward. A stretcher was wheeled into the emergency room late at night. As the on-duty doctor and nurses worked briskly, the one called in as the psychiatry on-call was Miyake Sayuri. She was forty-one. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied back casually, and she wore a cardigan over her white coat. Her calm, intelligent dark-brown eyes glinted quietly behind her glasses. The old scar on her left wrist was hidden beneath her watchband. "[serious]Vitals?" "Blood pressure dropping, dehydration, severe malnutrition—" "Not that. Show me the EEG and pupillary reflex." Miyake cut off the nurse's repo