[Infiltration Mission – Disguise: Couple | District: Shinjuku Entertainment]
[Time: 21:58 | Weather: Clear, cool, light wind]
The neon lights transformed the night into a stage: bright pinks that dazzled the eyes, electric blues that pierced through, and soft purples that flowed gently across the shop windows. The main street undulated with the flow of people—overworked employees just being freed, tourists eager for experiences, and those deliberately seeking the brightest lights to hide their shadows. Music from underground clubs dripped onto the sidewalks; the smell of grilled yakitori, sweet fruit alcohol, and faint electronic cigarette smoke mixed in the warm air.
They entered the crowd without causing any noticeable ripples. Makima's hand brushed against Fitran's arm as if it were second nature for a long-time couple; her movement was practical, not affectionate, but just enough to sync with his breathing rhythm. Chain Balance throbbed softly, aligning their steps and intentions.
"This is not a mission that attracts attention," she said quietly, without looking back. "Ironically, we need to use it."
"You're drawing attention to catch the parasite that consumes it," Fitran replied. "We are both bait and hook."
A small smile touched her lips. "Don't forget the line."
[SYSTEM – BRIEF & LOADOUT]
Mission: Infiltration – Attention-Para Residual
Disguise: Couple (low profile → escalate on cue)
Roles:
- Lead: Fitran (social steering + extraction)
- Anchor: Makima (control calibration + hazard cut)
Status:
Affinity: 89%
Trust: 11%
Chain Balance: ACTIVE (+2% Affinity/Resistance on sync)
Dual Affinity Burst (Makima): READY (unused)
Constraints:
- Public Alert < 40%
- No lethal force on civilians
- No true-name invocation
Objective:
1) Trace the "Attention-Para" locus
2) Identify host vector (club circuit)
3) Plant counter-resonance marker
4) Exfil unnoticed
The crowd swallowed them up. A pair of karaoke promoters offered vouchers; a nightclub server waved a flyer with a smile affixed; a cellphone camera captured a giant cotton candy being held by a girl in a glitter jacket. On the rooftop billboard, a perfume model stared coldly; her gaze followed them back through the light.
Makima grabbed Fitran's hand and spun his body halfway around—not out of threat, but to align their perspectives. "Look at that banner," she said in a low voice.
Neon letters formed the word LOOK. Simple. Strange. Too generic to be an advertisement, too bare to be a slogan. Below it, a street vendor arranged glowing necklaces shaped like eyes.
"That's not a sudden trend," Fitran muttered. "It's guidance. Parasites latch onto whatever draws attention."
"And Shinjuku has no shortage of that." She traced the line of people who stopped for no clear reason—just to look. "We're leaning toward a spot that centers the spotlight."
They crossed at the crosswalk. Yellow lantern lights dripped down onto the hair of passersby. Ahead, stairs led down to a nameless hostess club—just a small glowing eye symbol on the concrete wall.
"There's a faint ozone smell," Fitran said.
"Low resonance," Makima replied. "Not a big demon. But smart."
"We go in as a couple. You handle the sharp eyes."
"And you'll lead the conversation."
[Venue: B1 – Eyes On You]
The basement floor gleamed like a piano's surface. Tiny lights were installed beneath the tables, casting elongated shadows toward the chairs. City pop music floated through the air; not too loud, but enough to occupy the mind. The hosts and hostesses moved with practiced grace, smiles expertly calibrated. In the corner, the CCTV camera pretended to be blind.
A modern kimono-clad hostess approached. "Welcome," she greeted warmly. "A table for two?"
"For us," Fitran replied, a clean smile free of nerves. "Somewhere quiet to talk."
The hostess nodded, guiding them to a half-closed booth. The sliding bamboo door behind them left a gap the size of an eye.
Makima glanced down—not bowing, but shifting her focus. "The gap," she whispered. "Parasite needs a line of sight. That door isn't just for aesthetics; it's an antenna."
A host arrived with a menu. "Tonight's special is the 'Spotlight Cocktail.' Highly recommended."
"No," Makima replied gently. "Two oolong teas."
The host chuckled softly, unoffended. "Tea can also be a spotlight if enjoyed by the right person."
As the host walked away, Chain Balance buzzed like a string being touched. Fitran brushed his fingers against Makima's wrist—light contact, functional. "Are you holding back the command?"
"I'm waiting for the cue," he replied. "The social world punishes commands too quickly."
"Then let me start."
He nudged the conversation toward the next host: questions about their hometown, jokes about the bright lights, comments on the music. Safe topics, though delivered with a pause. Parasites love pauses—that's the space where gazes rise, where attention seeks connections.
The ceiling lights flickered once. The hostess returned with tea. "Be careful, it's hot."
Makima blew on the surface, steam forming a thin mist. "Can you see it?"
"The light of memories," Fitran replied. "Parasites steal moments of others' focus to layer the atmosphere."
"What does it feel like?" the hostess asked, her voice as smooth as folded silk.
"Like being seen but not remembered," Makima said—an honest answer that masked the scrutiny.
The hostess nodded as if she understood more than she ought to. "That's the meaning of the night."
She stepped back. As her back disappeared behind a pillar, the shadow on the floor seemed to turn.
"It's time," Makima whispered. "I calibrate. You connect."
"Start small."
Makima lifted her gaze—not looking at anyone in particular, yet everything seemed to glance over for a fraction of a second. Not a show of great power, just a slice of attention finely tuned. The parasite leaped to the glowing spot like an insect to a lamp.
Fitran brushed the edge of the table, shifting the coaster half a centimeter. "Marker."
He pressed the tip of his finger against the wood; Voidlight felt as cold as a shadow, etching a nearly invisible thin pattern—a circle that remained open. To the naked eye, it was a blot. To the parasite, it was a small door leading to nothingness.
"Don't close the circle," Makima instructed. "We don't want a permanent trap."
"Agreed. We're just luring it out."
The lights flickered again. The music lowered its volume on its own. A host laughed loudly, too loudly, then fell silent. Behind them, three tables turned to face the two of them without reason.
"Attention is starting to gather," Makima said. "Control your breath."
He touched the back of Fitran's hand—a gesture that appeared affectionate, but it was actually phase lock. Two intentions were set so that the parasite had no gap to consume either of them.
"What's next?" Fitran asked.
"Give them a reason to look at us, but not a reason to shout."
He half stood, leaving a pause of his body in the light. The corners of his mouth lifted, not smiling at anyone, but rather at possibility. The light shone on his forehead and then slid down to his jawline. The crowd closed in, not with steps, but with gazes.
The parasite writhed. Its form was unseen—it manifested as a simultaneous push: a server misunderstanding, a customer wanting to join in, a camera zooming automatically. Attention-Para was a hungry algorithm simmering with human essence.
"It's time to bind," Fitran said. "Before it binds us."
"Do it."
He leaned forward, the distance shortening. The people in the two adjacent booths stopped talking. The hostess at the far end of the room slowly closed the menu. The service shifted—a staff member accidentally spilled a napkin, while another twisted a glass. All these "small" events gathered together into a sharp focus.
"Now," whispered Makima.
Voidlight crept under the table, weaving together the nearly concealed line—not closing it off, but tying it to the rhythm of Chain Balance. Parasite bit into the urge to look; its hook turned out to be empty.
The electricity in the wall buzzed. The CCTV camera froze on a single frame.
"Hooked," Makima said. "Pull for a moment."
He traced the air with his fingertip—a small circle, the control contract attaching a 'spotlight' to a mark on the table. The Parasite, born from humanity's thirst for look at me, could not resist the source of the light. It solidified into a social accident: several patrons began to rise to "help" with something that wasn't happening. The legs of the chairs creaked.
"That's enough," Fitran said. "Let's get it out of the room."
"A little explosion cue?" he asked flatly.
"Set piece," he replied. "Opening for phase two."
Makima tapped the rim of her tea glass twice. "Contract Command—Controlled Detonation, 1% yield."
On the ceiling, a spotlight burst like an old bulb. A brief flash of white startled the room but damaged nothing except the narrative. All heads turned toward the source of the light—not toward them.
"Get out," Fitran said. "Move the locus to the service corridor."
They stood up. Makima casually swept her hair back; Chain Balance drew attention away from her face. The Parasite followed the brightest spot—the back corridor where staff was checking the electrical panel.
They passed the cashier. "The bill?" the staff member asked.
Makima placed down her card. "Leave the tip for the new lights."
The staff member nodded, puzzled; tonight was enjoyable, he said, even though he didn't know why.
[Corridor B2 – Service Spine]
Cold white fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Concrete walls rise, and large pipes coil through the space. The air carries a mix of detergent and overheated wires. Parasites gather here as a disruption to humanity: two staff members argue over scheduling, a customer complains despite nothing being wrong. Everyone wants to be heard at once.
"This is the nest," Fitran says. "Not a home, but a place for it to grow."
"Marker two," Makima replies.
She nudges the cover of a fire hose slightly, revealing a small gap of red light. The parasite turns toward the color. Makima snaps her fingers—control calms one staff member, halting the aggressive conversation. The parasite loses its dish.
"If we attack here, there will be chaos," Fitran warns.
"We won't attack. We'll starve it instead."
He pulled out a thin charm, a black pocket mirror. "Mirrorwalk (prototype)," he explained briefly. "It redirects glances back to the sender. It's not pure magic—social algorithms are tied to it through a contract."
"Are you sure it's stable?"
"No. That's why we're testing it."
Makima held the mirror at a 45-degree angle, capturing the reflection of a fluorescent light. The Parasite, seeking a gaze, found itself reflected. It tried to consume its own reflection; however, the reflection held no taste, only shape. In that moment, Chain Balance severed the supply.
"Look," Makima said.
The noise in the corridor dropped instantly. The officers snapped back to their original duties. The complaining customer suddenly remembered another place he needed to be. The Parasite lost its free meal.
"Now let's mark the exit route," Fitran said.
He drew another voidline—a thin line on the floor leading to the emergency stairs. The parasite followed the easiest path: attention follows a straight line if unobstructed.
"On the stairs, shall we blow it up again?" Makima asked.
"One more time, smaller than before."
They pushed the door. The stairs were coated in gray paint that reflected their footsteps. The parasite stuck to the sound of heels—an easily predictable rhythm. One floor down, Makima tapped the door's license plate: "Controlled Detonation, 0.5%." The green spark on the emergency indicator blinked—just enough to shift focus to the oddly lit light. The parasite froze.
"Out," Fitran said. "Narrow back alley."
[Backstreet Split – 22:34]
The narrow alley opened up to a service road. Metal trash cans lined up neatly. At the end, a box truck was parked—its back door slightly ajar, the interior light pulsing. From the gap, a faint sound reminiscent of a broken radio whistled.
"Not an ordinary parasite," Makima said quietly. "There's a secondary host."
"Smuggler?" Fitran guessed. "Or a crew harvesting attention to sell?"
"Could be both."
They approached as if they were a couple seeking a shortcut. The parasite crept in the air, sending chills down their forearms. The Voidlight at the tip of Fitran's fingers elongated to a thin line— not an attack, just a measuring tool.
The truck's door swung wider. A man in a cheap tuxedo jacket revealed his face: stage makeup smudged, eyes unnaturally wide. At his feet, plastic boxes labeled: Spotlight Beads, Virtue Filter, Refractor. Contrafactual items—not pure magic, not pure technology—tools for harvesting attention and refining it into influence.
"Can I help you?" The man smiled a grin that felt overly tight. "You look like the kind of people who deserve to be seen."
Makima glanced at him slightly. "We're not buying."
"Oh, everyone buys. Even when they call it 'donation.'" He held up a marble-sized orb—inside, tiny flashes of light danced. "One small burst in the crowd, all eyes turn. Fill it with your face—and you'll always be welcomed."
"You're selling parasites," Fitran said.
"No," he replied cheerfully. "I'm just selling the frame. The content… that's provided by the people themselves."
"And what if the frame cracks?"
He shrugged. "They'll just buy a new one."
Makima scanned the truck—two cameras, a handmade antenna panel, a small generator. "Are you a host or a handler?"
"Service provider," he answered, still friendly. "Tonight, it seems the lights like you. Want me to redirect more?"
"No need," Makima said softly. "You've given enough."
The man raised an eyebrow. "That's a… too polite answer."
"Because we're the invigilators," Fitran added calmly. "And your service is causing public deviation."
The man's smile cracked for a split second. "Ah, I see."
He grabbed something from under a cardboard box. His movement was smooth, not nervous—like a professional who knows when to escape and when to beat the drum loudly. The Attention bead in his hand blinked—he was about to blow up an imaginary crowd to clear a path.
"Don't," Makima said. Just one word, not a harsh command, but a lock that bound his intent.
"Too late," he replied briefly.
The small bead shattered—a silent flash ricocheted off the metal of the truck. It wasn't a physical explosion, but a signal blast: a wave of look at me slammed against the wall and then bounced back. In the alley's mouth, three passersby simultaneously halted, their phones raised like a ritual. Attention began to gather with terrifying speed.
"Now," Fitran said. "Set piece."
Makima rolled her wrist. "Controlled Detonation, 3%—directed up."
The air just above the truck shimmered with light. A hollow bang rippled through the air; the antenna panel burst, lightweight debris sparkled down like fake snow. The onlookers at the mouth of the alley were pulled upward—a natural human reaction to a flash in the sky.
"Clear it," Makima instructed.
Voidlight stretched into a clean line. Fitran tore the antenna cable, stabbed into the generator, and then arranged fragments of a bead into an incomplete circle pattern on the gang floor. The attention-hungry Parasite bit at the fragments—its hook was empty once more, devoid of any taste. It subsided like a dog mistaking a shadow for meat.
The man froze—Makima's control restrained any dangerous movements, but it wasn't meant to torture. "Your operation is over," she stated flatly. "You can go home tonight with your bones intact if you answer: who is above you?"
He let out a small laugh, weary. "Above everyone, there is always the light. You know that."
"The name," Makima pressed.
"The name changes every week." He raised both hands, not completely surrendering, but indicating emptiness. "We call it the Producer. That's all."
"Distribution channels?"
"Small clubs. Karaoke attendants. Stage managers who… want shortcuts."
"Where do the supplies come from?"
He rolled his eyes toward the southwest. "From studios that no longer produce anything except obsessions."
"Enough," Fitran said.
Makima released the lock. "You lead social execution. Decide."
"Dismantle the equipment, mark the route, let him go home. We need a messenger bird."
He nodded. "Agreed."
Voidlight sliced the cables into meaningless threads. Makima attached a small marker—a flimsy black paper that disappeared from view—to the wall inside the truck. "If you move the operation, we'll be watching," she stated without threat, just a fact.
The man swallowed hard. "You're quite the… effective duo."
"We're partners learning together," Makima replied.
"And tonight, the lights are on our side," Fitran added.
They stepped back from the truck. The parasite—previously writhing significantly—was now just a small residue creeping along the edge of the door handle. Without its bead and antenna, it had no megaphone. It would look for another gaze that was easier to capture.
"Phase two?" Makima asked.
"Old studio," Fitran said. "The producer is selling frames."
"Tomorrow," she decided. "Tonight, we are done as partners."
[SYSTEM – PHASE ONE RESULT]
Trace: Attention-Para Residual – LOCUS SHIFTED (B1 club → service spine → handler truck)
Handler: Neutralized (non-lethal)
Intel:
- Alias: Producer
- Supply: "empty studio" (SW sector)
Public Alert: 24% (stable)
Affinity: +4% (89% → 93%)
Trust: +3% (11% → 14%)
Chain Balance: Stable (+1)
Dual Affinity Burst (Makima): READY (unused)
They returned to the main road. The neon lights no longer struck like a blow—it's as if the city had decided to close its eyes for a moment. People walked by without slowing down, no longer stopping to photograph the nonexistent flashes.
"The set piece earlier was clean," Makima said. "Directed upward. No shards of injury."
"You only hold back your power as far as necessary."
"And you only cut what needs to be cut."
She stared at their reflections in the closed shop's glass. Two silhouettes side by side; a thin black line—visible only to those who know—connected their wrists.
"We'll see if that studio is where the lights are born… or the graveyard of old lights."
"And what if Producer shines its spotlight on us?"
"I'll turn it off," she replied lightheartedly.
"What if he points his spotlight at the world?"
"We'll redirect it," Makima said, showing the black pocket mirror that had been visible earlier but was now calm. "Mirrorwalk needs a tougher test."
"That means we need a bigger stage."
She smiled faintly. "Shinjuku always has a stage."
Their steps passed by a row of fading pachinko machines. The night wind lifted a thin flyer, momentarily sticking it to their shoes. Fitran lowered his foot, letting the paper float away again—no hidden message, just a drink promotion, small eyes printed as part of the design.
"Parasites sometimes are born from ordinary hunger," he said.
"And we're not the judges of hunger," Makima replied. "We're just making sure no one eats it all."
They stopped at a narrow intersection facing a large street. The pedestrian signal turned green. The crowd moved, unaware that two people had just pulled a cable from a small stage below ground.
"For tonight," Makima said, her voice just for the two of them, "we're not commanding or submitting. We're tuning."
"We hold the chain… for the right reasons," Fitran added.
He nodded. "And we'll let go when the time is right."
They crossed the street. Neon washed over their skin in faint colors. Store mirrors reflected their faces—always two, never one.
Above, the stars were absent. That's alright. Tonight, they didn't need stars to find their way; just a small mark on the concrete wall and a faint trace of voidlight that could only be seen up close.
[MISSION WRAP – SOCIAL STEALTH]
Stealth Grade: A-
Key Factors:
- No civilian panic
- Controlled attention spikes (x2)
- Handler neutralized, intel secured
Consequences:
- "Producer" flag set
- Club circuit cautious (mild)
- Backstreet vendors reduce stock (24h)
Rewards:
- Trait Progress: Mirrorwalk (Social) 40%
- Passive: Crowd Dampening +1 (when Chain Balance is active)
- Affinity Milestone: 90% Threshold Approaching
Next:
- Phase Two Seed: Old Studio (SW sector)
- Ingress Options: Casting Call / Maintenance Access / Rooftop Lightwell
They paused in front of the drink vending machine. A bottle of iced tea fell with a dull thud. Makima handed it to Fitran without glancing at the label. "For your throat," she said, a small smile that needed no reason.
"For tomorrow," he replied.
"For tomorrow," she repeated, almost as if sealing a promise with the bittersweet taste of the tea.
Fitran took a long, refreshing sip of his iced tea, savoring the coolness as it slid down his throat. He could feel Makima's gaze wandering over him, fully aware of how intently she watched him swallow. The air was thick with unspoken tension, their mutual attraction intensifying with every heartbeat.
Makima closed the gap between them, her body pressing against his as her hands began to explore the defined muscles of his chest. A low groan escaped Fitran's lips at her touch, and without thinking, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her even closer.
In a charged moment, their lips met in a passionate kiss, urgency igniting as their tongues intertwined. Makima let out a soft moan into the kiss, arching her body against his, the heat between them rising to an undeniable intensity.
With newfound boldness, Fitran's hands moved beneath her shirt, his fingers gliding over the delicate skin of her back. Makima shivered at his touch, her body responding eagerly. She could feel his desire pressing against her thigh, and instinctively, she rolled her hips against him, drawing a deep, guttural moan from his chest.
As the iced tea slipped from Fitran's fingers, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud, neither of them registered the sound. They were completely absorbed in one another, lost in the tempest of passion swirling around them. The vending machine quietly hummed in the background, an indifferent observer to the fervent scene unfolding before it.
Their bodies came together in a wild dance, clothing discarded carelessly as passion consumed them. Makima pressed Fitran against the vending machine, the cool metal sending shivers across their heated skin. She lavished kisses down his neck, playfully nipping at the sensitive areas, drawing soft gasps from him.
Fitran groaned deeply, fingers entwining in her hair as he drew her closer still. "Makima..." he breathed out, his voice thick with longing.
With a teasing smile against his skin, she deftly worked at the button of his jeans. In one swift motion, she yanked them down, liberating his desire from its confines. Fitran gasped, a jolt of sensation coursing through him as her warm mouth enveloped him, her tongue swirling expertly around the tip.
As Makima moved, she skillfully focused on him, her hands holding firmly to his hips to keep him in place. His head fell back against the vending machine, eyes closing tight in bliss as pleasure washed over him. The enticing sounds of her mouth paired with his soft moans created a symphonic backdrop of desire.
As Makima pulled back, her sultry and playful gaze locked with his. She flashed a wicked grin, then turned, pressing her back against him. Their bodies fit together perfectly as she ground her backside against his erection, teasing him with the promise of ecstasy to come.
With a swift motion, Makima slipped down her panties, kicking them aside. She reached back, grabbing Fitran's manhood and guiding it towards her entrance. She was already wet with desire, and as he slid inside her, their moans echoed in unison.
Fitran established an intense rhythm, thrusting into her relentlessly. Makima challenged him, her body arching to welcome each of his movements. The vending machine shook from their vigorous actions, the bottles inside rattling in a tumultuous dance.
As the peak of their pleasure approached, Makima lowered her hand to touch herself, her fingers moving in sync with Fitran's thrusts. His hand covered her mouth, muffling her cries as they both reached their climax.
With one final thrust, Fitran released himself inside her, his body trembling from the wave of orgasm that surged through him. Shortly after, Makima followed suit, her body contracting around him as she found her own release.
As they descended from their peak of ecstasy, their sweat-soaked bodies leaned against each other, breathing heavily. The vending machine hummed quietly in the background, a silent witness to the debauchery that had just taken place.