Stepping past the recruitment clamor, Miyuki emerged from the terminal to the familiar sight of the Bay Area.
The sky remained overcast, but clear patches had widened.
Below stretched an urban sprawl—large commercial complexes, elevated expressways of the Bayshore Route. They looked aged, but unchanged from twenty years ago.
Nostalgia washed over Miyuki. The reality of returning to Tokyo sank in.
But safety was fleeting. The Prison City teemed with Ghosts sent from outside, now forming most of its population. Some were surely dangerous. He couldn't let his guard down.
His plan was to visit his old home and high school—places from his human life before becoming a Ghost. Their survival was uncertain, but he had to see for himself.
Hood pulled low, hands in pockets, he started walking.
Footsteps followed. Turning, he saw the four from Yomotsu Hirasaka trailing him.
"What? Need something?" Miyuki asked sharply.
The four exchanged hesitant glances.
"No, not really…" Kyuto, the brown-haired freeter, said with a wry smile.
Kawahara glared. "Hey, kid, where you headed?"
"None of your business," Miyuki snapped.
They didn't back off. Tanaka, clutching his backpack, spoke up. "You know this place, don't you? Tokyo's layout hasn't changed much. Maps are online, but…"
Miyuki stayed silent. Taking it as confirmation, they relaxed, stepping closer.
"We're all from out of town," Tanaka continued. "Didn't expect to end up here. No prep, no clue where Tokyo Station is…"
He gave an awkward laugh, shrugging. Miyuki's cold demeanor didn't waver.
"Do what you want. Following me's a hassle," he said.
Kyuto and Tanaka looked confused, as if his hostility baffled them. Kawahara and Inaba, visibly irritated, scowled.
"That's how you talk to your elders!?" Inaba barked.
Miyuki ignored him, turning away.
"Hey!" Tanaka called.
"Wait!" Kawahara shouted.
"What's with that guy!?" Inaba growled.
Their complaints echoed, but Miyuki tuned them out, walking on.
They were Ghosts, too. Miyuki knew all too well how dangerous Ghosts could be. He wanted distance, fast.
Their Animus waves were likely weak, but he couldn't trust them. The port incident lingered—the boy's breakdown showed even teens could turn deadly with the right Animus.
A sharp pain stabbed his mind.
Screams, groans. Black smoke laced with flames. Blood pooling on concrete, its raw stench. A crimson-soaked, sinister scene—memories from twenty years ago flooded back, forcing Miyuki to stop.
Horrible memories he couldn't escape.
His sins' lingering scars.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking them off.
No time for sentiment. He had to move forward.
Opening his eyes, he glared at the towering buildings and resumed walking. But reality soon hit hard.
Aiming for Tokyo Station, Miyuki headed north along Harumi Street.
Each bridge crossing the Bay Area revealed more collapsed buildings. Roads were nearly empty of vehicles. The Bayshore Expressway was fragmented, with broken girders. It hadn't served its purpose in years.
No people, no voices, no sounds—just sea breeze rustling his sleeves. For a city once home to ten million, it felt like a nightmare.
Central Ward's buildings loomed closer, many half-destroyed or leaning. Even standing structures had cracked walls and shattered windows.
Miyuki recalled online images of war-torn or disaster-struck cities. Japan had faced quakes before. This was that devastation.
In Ginza and Yurakucho, vehicles and people appeared, but the asphalt was cracked, buildings worse off. The people had wild, menacing eyes, sizing him up. In the Prison City, they were likely Ghosts. Approaching them felt unwise.
Hood low, Miyuki avoided their gazes.
Tokyo Station's iconic red-brick Marunouchi entrance stood, a small relief. But its central exit, once bustling, was desolate, feeling eerily vast.
Tokyo Tower peeked between buildings, unchanged from afar. But the Prime Minister's residence, ministries, and Diet Building were gone—razed to empty lots, left untouched since Tokyo ceased being the capital.
The city's past as Japan's heart seemed obliterated.
Miyuki stared at the bleak scene, then turned west, moving on.
Following the Chuo Main Line, he saw no trains on the elevated tracks. Vehicles were sparse. The city remained ghostly quiet.
Homes, apartments, and condos were often destroyed or tilting, many demolished. Intact houses, with curtains drawn or shutters closed, felt uninhabited.
(It's really… changed.)
The parade of ruins dulled his sense of return. This wasn't the familiar Tokyo he'd lived in—it was a foreign wasteland.
Memories from twenty years ago surfaced.
Miyuki Amamiya grew up in an ordinary family—a salaryman father, a university lecturer mother. A typical nuclear family, neither special nor troubled. Just a normal kid.
Everything crumbled when he was identified as a Ghost.
Back then, Ghosts were rare in Japan, whispered about as a strange overseas disease.
He never imagined he'd be caught in that storm.
The reaction was brutal—treated like a criminal. Endless harassment, thrown stones, slander, even media swarming him. From a normal high schooler, he became an outcast overnight.
Normal life at home or school became impossible.
He could endure attacks on himself, but not his family and friends suffering. He left home, never returning. His family shattered.
(Because I became a Ghost.)
He still believed it. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been targeted, his family wouldn't have suffered, and they wouldn't have fallen apart. He could've gone to college, worked, married—lived a normal life.
It was all his fault, as a Ghost.
He hadn't seen his parents since leaving, unsure of their fate. His Ghost status was public knowledge. Could his parents live quietly as his kin? The thought brought only dread.
If only he weren't a Ghost.
Would everything be fine?
No proof existed, but the dark thought clung to him like a shadow.
How long had he walked? Without a watch or device, time was unclear. The sun, peeking through thick clouds, slanted westward.
The surroundings grew bleaker. Asphalt gave way to overgrown weeds. Tilted utility poles, long neglected, stood like relics. Intact houses were rare. No human presence remained.
Spotting a school-like building, Miyuki paused. It was unfamiliar, but its intact form stood out among the ruins.
He recalled being taught to seek schools during disasters. Maybe someone was there. Likely Ghosts, but the loneliness of the empty city stirred a yearning for contact.
To reach it, he'd need to enter a narrow alley.
(Let's go.)
Hesitating briefly, he headed toward the school. A few steps in, a collapsed two-story house blocked the path. He detoured through an even narrower alley, barely wide enough for a car. Shattered glass, wood, tiles, and scattered household items littered the cracked asphalt.
Emerging into an open space, he saw foundations of former buildings—apartments or offices—reduced to concrete bases with rusted rebar twisting like grotesque art. Rubble was strewn about.
Among it, Miyuki spotted a soccer ball and picked it up.
(Kids loved soccer back then…)
Nostalgia hit. The ball's owner likely practiced with it. Where were they now? Its worn, faded surface, caked in mud and dust, suggested long abandonment.
"Is anyone… still kicking balls around?" he muttered.
Traces of life lingered, but the people were gone.
Wind tugged his coat, a dry emptiness gripping him, as if the world had collapsed, leaving him alone. He placed the ball back gently.
(Focus. Get to the school.)
He turned to move on.
But then, a heavy presence surrounded him.
(This is bad.)
Instinct screamed danger, but it was too late. As he stepped forward, figures emerged from the shadows, encircling him.
Miyuki froze, lowering his hooded head to hide his face, scanning his surroundings.
Rough-looking youths, dressed like him in hoodies and jeans, glared with open hostility. Some were women, their postures predatory.
(Ghosts?)
His heart sank. If so, this was dire—like being cornered by criminals. Cold sweat trickled down his cheek. He stood still, watching them. They seemed wary, not rushing in, but slowly tightening their circle like hunters.
(What now?)
Escaping without provoking them was ideal, but their numbers made it unlikely. What was the best move?
As he weighed options, he spotted familiar faces.
"Let me go! What'd we do!?" Kawahara shouted, his baseball cap askew.
A youth punched his side, silencing him. Inaba, Tanaka, and Kyuto—his cellmates from the ship—were there, faces etched with fear. They'd been dragged here.
A bald man, exuding authority, stepped forward. His presence was intense, his build massive. A half-melted skull tattoo marked his temple. He was their leader.
Miyuki met his gaze under his hood. Any weakness could mean a beating. Sweat soaked his back. The bald man grinned, speaking.
"Hey, you. You've got it, right?"
"What?" Miyuki replied.
He jerked his chin at a subordinate, who shoved Tanaka. The timid ex-clerk jumped, trembling, and pointed at Miyuki, voice shrill.
"I… I saw it! He's got a major bank card and passbook! Just a glimpse, but I swear!"
Tanaka squeezed his eyes shut, fingers shaking. The bald man's grin widened, eyes locking on Miyuki.
Miyuki gripped the envelope in his coat. They wanted his money. They didn't know it held ten million yen, but they'd likely interrogated his cellmates to target him.
"You want money that bad?" he asked.
The group laughed, a mocking edge to it.
"Leave it, idiot," the bald man said. "Money's nice, but your life's worth more, right?"
His gaze stayed sharp as he grabbed Tanaka's face with a dramatic backhand. A red glow flickered at the edges of his pupils.
In an instant, Tanaka's body froze.
With a squeeze of the man's hand, Tanaka shattered into dust.
It happened in a flash. Silence fell, then screams erupted from Inaba, Kawahara, and Kyuto, gripped by panic.
"What was that!?" Kawahara cried.
"No way… an Animus!?" Kyuto stammered.
"Tanaka… he's dead…!" Inaba gasped.
Their faces drained of color, voices breaking.
But the surrounding youths, unfazed, smirked and chuckled, as if this were routine.