Friday morning. The psychiatric ward of Tamanoy General Hospital lay quiet. Only the footsteps of Miyake Sayuri echoed through the corridor, striking the linoleum floor in steady rhythm. Her black hair, draped over her shoulders, was gathered carelessly behind her head, her bangs parted cleanly at the center. She had a habit of tucking it behind her ears while working, but now it hung loose against her face. Behind her glasses, her dark brown eyes were fixed on a single point. In her hands, she carried five patient charts. She entered a private room and closed the door. The metallic click of the lock rang out, far too loud. "[serious]...That makes five." Murmuring to herself, Miyake spread the charts across the desk. The first one — Tanabe Kazuo, fifty-eight years old, male. Rushed to the hospital from Café Lunatica three days ago, presenting with severe dissociative symptoms. The remaining four had been brought in over the past week, all complaining of the same condition. She laid one sheet of EEG waveform data over another, and then another. Between delta and theta waves. An abnormally regular waveform that ordinary neural activity could never produce. As if the brain were being forcibly stimulated from an external source — Miyake's hands stopped. The waveforms matched perfectly. All five patients, the exact same pattern. A one-point-eight-second cycle. Only the brain regions governing pleasure were being activated, with mechanical precision. "[whispers]That's... impossible." She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Beneath the watch strap on her left wrist, old scars lay hidden — marks she had inflicted on herself during her residency, driven by the guilt of failing to save a young patient. She took a deep breath. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk. Locked away inside lay a file she had shown no one for three years. The Amenomatsuri Incident — that case in which a massive IT corporation had manipulated public cognition, attempting to rule the world from the shadows. During the chaos, Tokyo's hospitals had been overwhelmed, and twelve victim charts had been unofficially routed to her. She opened the file. Extracted the EEG data. Laid them side by side. Miyake held her breath. "[shocked]...They're the same." The victims from three years ago, and the five patients now sleeping in hospital rooms. What was happening inside their brains showed completely identical waveforms. Something she had dismissed as "occult nonsense" for three years now lay before her eyes, as hard data. A cold sensation crawled down her spine. She checked the door to her room once more, confirming it was locked. — Lunch break. Miyake sat at the hospital's database terminal, cross-referencing the five patients' personal effects records with their credit card statements. The electronic medical record screen scrolled, streams of numbers and text flowing past. The results came up. "[cold]...Café Lunatica. Every single one of them went to the same place." Kouga Alley, Shibuya Ward. The receipt dates varied, but all of them had visited multiple times. Every one of them had collapsed within two days of their last visit. Numbers that couldn't be dismissed as coincidence. Statistically impossible. She removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. (I have to tell someone about this.) Should she go to the police — no, ordinary police wouldn't be enough. Just like during the Amenomatsuri Incident, the evidence was far too thin. Submit abnormal EEG waveforms to a court, and they'd dismiss it as "equipment malfunction." But she did have one lead. After the incident, public security officials had unofficially established a "Paranormal Phenomena Task Force." She'd heard from a research colleague in academic circles that such a unit supposedly existed. Carefully, Miyake began searching from the hospital's network-connected terminal. Taking every precaution to leave no access history, routing through detours, she sought out a contact point for the Hagane Unit. And found the unit leader's name. Otori Shuji. She typed at the keyboard. "I have information regarding Lunatica. Can you come to Senkawa Park near Tamanoy Hospital tonight?" Send. A short text message. — Two floors below ground at the Metropolitan Police Department. In the Hagane Unit's office, Otori Shuji stared at his smartphone screen, his face twisted by the pain in his ribs. The wounds he'd sustained infiltrating Café Lunatica had yet to heal. The old scar running from his right temple down to his jaw stood out starkly under the fluorescent lights. "[serious]Lunatica, huh..." The sender was Miyake Sayuri. A name he'd never heard before. But it contained the proper noun "Lunatica." It could be a trap. But the things he had seen in that shop — the customers bound to chairs, the smiling dolls, the names of the dead carved into the walls — only a limited number of people knew about them. This person was a witness holding an essential key to the case. Otori replied immediately. "Understood. I'll be there at 1700 hours." — Just past five in the evening. The trees of Senkawa Park cast deep shadows, blocking the western sun. The wind was cold. Air tinged with the scent of winter sent dead leaves swirling upward. The benches were empty. The fountain's water had been stilled. Miyake stood waiting at the park entrance, her coat collar drawn close. Behind her glasses, her dark brown eyes held a quiet wariness. The scars beneath her left wristwatch strap were hidden by her thick sleeve. She heard footsteps. Turning, she saw a tall man standing there. His black hair, parted seven-three, was streaked with gray. His narrow eyes were sharp. A long, thin scar ran from his right temple to his jaw. On the ring finger of his left hand, the faint mark of a wedding band remained. "[serious]Otori Shuji. You're Miyake-san?" "[gentle]Miyake Sayuri. I'm sorry to take up your time." The two sat facing each other on a bench. A meter of physical distance between them. A careful gap, just beyond arm's reach. "[serious]What do you know about Lunatica?" "[cold]First, please look at this." Miyake pulled a file from her bag and handed over copies of the EEG data. The five patients' waveforms, overlaid and printed. "[serious]Five patients with dissociative symptoms, brought in over the past seven days. All of them show the same abnormal brainwave pattern. Pleasure signals being forcibly induced from an external source — a waveform that ordinary neural activity could never produce." Otori stared intently at the pages. A string of specialized graphs, but he understood what they meant. He had seen the same thing at a fire scene fifteen years ago, and at Amatsukaze Tower three years ago. "[serious]And this, too." She handed over another file. Victim charts from the Amenomatsuri Incident three years prior. Documents that should have been classified. "[cold]The brainwaves of the victims from three years ago and the waveforms of these five patients match perfectly. This is as far as I can speak as a physician. This is — not an illness. Someone is deliberately manipulating human brains." Otori was silent for a long moment. Only the wind tumbled the dead leaves along. "[low]...You've done your homework." He raised his head. His narrow eyes fixed directly on Miyake. "[serious]I'll share what I know, too. This is top-secret investigation material, but at this point, I've got no choice but to say it. The mastermind behind the incident three years ago — the former CEO of Amenomatsuri, Asakura Shinji. Officially, he's dead. But the truth is different. That man digitized his own personality and fled into the depths of the network." Miyake's expression shifted in an instant. "[shocked]...A digital personality?" "[serious]Yeah. I saw it at the scene. Inside that collapsing otherworld, his consciousness turned into particles of light and vanished." Miyake tried to laugh it off — and couldn't. The EEG data before her eyes supported the hypothesis. Neural signal manipulation on this scale was inexplicable without a network-based external device mediated by advanced AI. "[cold]...Tsukinomiya, then." "[surprised]You know about it?" "[serious]We found an app by that name on the patients' smartphones. Impossible to uninstall, and it maintains abnormal communications. At first, I thought it was just a malicious app, but —" "[angry]It's not. That thing is an otherworld generation tool that manifests people's desires. Under Café Lunatica, too, an otherworld born from the distortions of human hearts is spreading. I saw it. Smiling dolls, the names of the dead carved into the walls —" He spoke in a rush, and grimaced — the movement must have aggravated his ribs. "[gentle]...Are you all right?" "[serious]I'm fine. So, here's the conclusion. Asakura Shinji is still alive. As a digital personality, from the depths of the network, he's begun to encroach on this city again. The next move is —" "[serious]A physical investigation of the underground section of the former Amenomatsuri headquarters, Amatsukaze Tower, and tracking Tsukinomiya across the network." Otori looked at her, momentarily surprised. "[cold]I've reached the same conclusion. As a physician, I can't stand by and watch more patients pile up." At those words, Otori let out a small breath. "[serious]...We move next week. This could put you in danger. You still in?" "[cold]I don't mind. I'm already far too involved as it is." The two agreed on their course of action for the following week. Near the end of their conversation, Miyake moved to adjust her coat collar, and her hand hovered in the air for a moment. Reflexively, Otori almost reached out to touch it. "[gentle]Don't push yourself too hard." After saying it, he realized why he had chosen those words, and averted his gaze. Miyake said nothing, simply readjusting her grip on the charts. The wind blew between them once more. That was when it happened. "—Your plans end here." The voice came from nowhere. No. To be precise, it came from the small speaker of the park's security camera. A distorted, electronic voice. Yet its quiet, commanding tone was somehow familiar. Miyake looked up. Otori rose slightly from his seat. "[cold]I am always watching. Your conversations, your EEG data, your investigation plans — all of it is processed within my network." The voice continued. "[cold]I am the embodiment of order. I have a duty to eliminate those who bring chaos into this world. You have come too close to my true nature." Otori clenched his teeth. "[angry]You bastard... Asakura Shinji!" "[cold]Correct. But you have no right to speak my name. The two of you will now be processed as obstacles to my plan." The voice cut off. — Network depths. Utsushiyonosoko. In a virtual Japanese-style room, Asakura Shinji manipulated countless windows. His short hair shimmered with a pale blue phosphorescence like moonlight. His silver eyes, devoid of pupils, stared coldly at the images of the two on the screen. The fingertips of his right hand trembled faintly. "[cold]Digital personality — the moment those words were spoken, my thought routines halted for zero-point-three seconds." Shinji murmured. In human terms, it was equivalent to the sensation of blood draining from one's face in an instant. "[cold]To have come this close to my true nature. My predictive models underestimated the variable that is Otori." He re-examined Otori's internal police files. The Shibuya mixed-use building fire from fifteen years ago — the death records of his wife and child. The figures of his family, left behind inside the blazing structure. The pale light leaking through the gaps in the charred walls. "[cold]...This is usable." Only the corner of Shinji's mouth twisted. His eyes never smiled. "[cold]When a human's emotions are shaken, they condemn others before engaging in logical refutation. This is an application of that