300 Years Ago — Tokyo — Akihabara
The city trembled in a storm of sirens and shadows.
Police lights painted the buildings red and blue, and above, helicopters sliced through the smoky air, it was the world's most terrifying mystery.
A crackling broadcast echoed from a nearby news drone, barely stable under the electromagnetic pressure:
"Day nine... and still no change in the unidentified phenomenon. The object remains sealed within the colossal anti-force field..."
The feed zoomed in.
There, floating at the heart of it all—an object not born of this Earth.
A colossal, violet-blue structure.
Egg-shaped. Silent. Pulsing.
Its glow shimmered like a heartbeat from another dimension, its surface shifting with arcane energy patterns.
Every pulse radiated a frequency that made even the air tremble. Cameras couldn't focus on it for long. Human eyes weren't meant to look at something that shouldn't exist.
Scientists, cloistered deep in underground labs, spoke in terrified tones:
"Its energy surges could erase the sun..."
But something—something ancient—had formed a field around it. A perfect sphere of negative energy, swallowing every deadly pulse.
Without that field, Tokyo would've already been ash.
The evacuation was swift.
Every living soul within a 500-meter radius was pulled out. No exceptions. The area was quarantined, silenced.
Nothing moved inside the dome—no wind, no life, no time.
Just the hum.
That low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate with the bones of anyone nearby.
A silent anomaly.
An unanswered question.
And no one—not the government, not the military, not the desperate—
dared to touch it.
In the distant city of Sapporo, quiet and cloaked in gentle snowfall far from the chaos of Tokyo, lived a young girl named Iris.
She was only five—yet her mind already moved with the precision of someone far older. Shy by nature, confident in her silent strengths, Iris preferred the solitude of her own efforts to the vulnerability of help.
Her father was a successful businessman, often absent—his world of meetings and flights carried him away from home.
Her mother had died giving birth to her, a tragedy that cast shadows over Iris's life before it had even truly begun.
Her grandmother—bitter, cold—regarded Iris not as family but as fault.
"You killed your mother," she whispered, venom lacing each word, punishing the innocent child daily with both cruelty and condemnation.
Iris never told her father.
She feared truth would fracture more than heal—that he might believe his mother's words and see in Iris a cursed child rather than a beloved daughter.
And so she endured—in silence—hiding her bruised heart behind a quiet smile no one ever questioned.
One early morning, before the sun had fully kissed the horizon, Iris slipped out of the house.
She had prepared for this moment for months—quietly stealing small bills from her father's drawer, studying maps, memorizing train schedules, tracing routes in the dark with a flashlight clenched between her teeth. Her breath fogged in the cold dawn, but her eyes burned with unwavering resolve.
Fear clung to her like a second skin... but beneath it, a fire roared. She was leaving. She had to.
In the backseat of a taxi, Iris sat stiffly, her tiny hands balled into fists on her lap.
The city passed her by in a blur of gray streets and glowing signs, but she never looked away. Not once.
At the station, among the early risers and scattered commuters, her eyes landed on a frail old woman hunched over on a bench. Late seventies, maybe older. Alone. Silent.
Iris approached, heart pounding. Her voice trembled, but her words didn't break.
"Grandma... can you take me to Tokyo?" she asked, eyes wide, brimming with desperation. Her tone held no deception—only a child's fragile plea, wrapped in quiet strength.
The woman turned slowly, studied the girl's face with eyes that had seen too much of the world.
Her wrinkled hand rose and rested gently on Iris's head, the touch soft... warm.
"And what are you planning to do in Tokyo, little one?" she asked, her voice like old wind chimes—fragile, but not without music.
A faint smile tugged at her lips, as if she saw something familiar in the girl's fire.
"My... my mom is there," Iris murmured, eyes cast downward. Her voice trembled. "I came here by mistake."
A lie—crafted with a child's desperation, but one that felt easier than explaining the truth.
The old woman studied her in silence, as if seeing through the cracks in her words—but said nothing.
After a moment, she smiled gently and extended a weathered hand.
"Then let's take you home,"
She said with quiet kindness.
And just like that, the two boarded the train. One, an old soul nearing twilight.
The other, a fragile spark running from the shadows of Sapporo—unknowingly rushing straight toward the fire that would shape her fate.
Destiny doesn't knock. Sometimes, it rides in silence on the morning train.
The train rumbled to life, slithering along the tracks like a silent serpent weaving through the spine of the mountains.
Iris sat by the window, her small frame pressed against the glass, wide eyes watching the world blur by—trees bending in wind, towns fading like memories.
Beside her, the old woman sat quietly, knitting with slow, delicate hands.
Yarn unwound between her fingers, dancing with a kind of rhythm only the elderly understand. For a while, everything was calm. Gentle. A stillness that felt... too perfect.
Then, the train entered a tunnel.
The light dimmed. The air shifted—growing colder, heavier.
The fluorescent bulbs above flickered erratically, casting sharp shadows that came and went like ghosts. A low hum filled the cabin, metallic and hollow, as if the train itself had started whispering secrets in a language long forgotten.
Iris blinked. Something was wrong.
The passengers—all of them—sat perfectly still. Not asleep. Not relaxed. Frozen. Their eyes stared forward, unblinking, lifeless. Even the old woman next to her had stopped mid-knit—needles suspended midair, as if time had snapped in two.
A silence fell.
But it wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that presses into your chest and dares your heart to beat louder.
And then... from the far end of the train car, a figure stepped forward.
It stood clad in a long, flowing black coat, fabric shifting like smoke with every motion.
Its face was hidden beneath a mask of bone-white metal, smooth and expressionless—inhuman.
The figure moved without sound, gliding more than walking, until it stopped directly beside Iris.
Her small body froze.
The air around her thickened, the world beyond her slowing to a crawl. Even her breath felt foreign in her lungs.
"You're not supposed to be here," the figure spoke—not in a voice, but in a vibration that echoed inside her skull, distorted and layered, like a thousand whispers tangled into one.
"I... I just want to go somewhere far," Iris whispered, her voice trembling.
The figure tilted its head, the metal of its mask gleaming faintly under the flickering lights.
"You're drawn to the anomaly."
She blinked. "What anomaly?"
The figure raised a long, pale finger and pointed—right at her chest.
"You'll understand. But not yet."
Then—
SWIP
The train lurched violently.
Lights surged back on. The cold vanished. Sounds flooded the car—chatter, engine hum, the distant screech of metal on rails.
Motion returned. Passengers blinked and stretched, as if nothing had happened. As if time had never stopped.
The old woman beside Iris smiled warmly and resumed knitting, unaware.
Iris sat still, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
Something had awoken within her.
Something in Tokyo was calling.