He pulled the zipper all the way to his throat, the fabric hugging him like armor. The girl gestured toward an alleyway that shouldn't have existed.

As he reached the center of the crosswalk, he gave the zipper a sharp tug. It didn't just slide; it clicked .

The mist hung heavy over Tokyo’s Shibuya Crossing, but Ren wasn’t looking at the neon. He was looking at the reflection in a puddle: the jagged, hand-painted mascot grinning back from the chest of his vintage Adidas tracksuit top .

"The rest of the set is waiting," she whispered. "Ready to run?"

Suddenly, the world went grayscale. The roar of the city silenced into a low, analog hum. Across the street, a girl in the exact same jacket—zipped to the chin—tilted her head. Her Tomio-chan patch wasn’t static; it winked.