The Next Morning
The train hissed to a stop.
Ren stepped off onto the platform at Shibuya Station, the early morning crowd already thick with commuters, tourists, and the city's relentless pulse. Even at this hour, the station buzzed—screens flickered with ads, voices echoed from every direction, and the hum of modern Tokyo wrapped around him like static.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and moved with the current, blending into the human river that surged through the underground.
"Shibuya..."
He'd read about it before—hunched over his phone.
"Most celebrities show up here eventually... media interviews, brand launches, pop-ups. If someone wanted attention—or a distraction—Shibuya's the stage."
The Shibuya Scramble Crossing loomed ahead as he emerged into the daylight, the morning sun casting long shadows between the buildings. It hit all at once—the noise, the color, the sheer scale of it. People flowed in every direction like the city itself was exhaling, and Ren paused at the edge of the crowd.
Above him, massive LED billboards played in perfect synchronization. Bright visuals danced across their surfaces, wrapping entire buildings in motion and light. And across almost all of them, a name repeated:
TRICKSTARR: ONE NIGHT ONLY – THE SKY FALLS TONIGHT AT SHIBUYA SKY
SOLD OUT. LIVE STREAM GLOBAL BROADCAST. 8PM JST.
A giant digital illusion played overhead—Trickstarr standing mid-air, arms raised as playing cards exploded outward into doves, the screen glitching with stylized static before resetting.
Ren narrowed his eyes as he stepped onto the scramble itself, weaving between photographers, social media influencers, and giddy fans holding up flyers.
"Trickstarr..."
The name flickered in his mind, pulling something forward.
"Kaito said something about a magician, didn't he?"
Ren's brow furrowed slightly. "It could be nothing. But it could also be something."
He slowed his pace near the plaza fronting Shibuya Scramble Square, eyes scanning the perimeter. Barricades lined the base of the tower, guiding foot traffic like a river around a dam. Security guards in black suits stood like statues at the entrances, checking passes with practiced disinterest. A roped-off VIP lane shimmered under the morning sun, where glossy cars rolled up and fans shrieked with excitement.
He stepped to the edge of the crowd, letting himself fade into the rhythm of the city for a moment—just another face among thousands.
To his right, a group of fans clutched glowsticks and camera rigs, buzzing with conversation.
"Do you think Raine Mizuki will come through the front?" one girl asked, eyes sparkling.
"No way," her friend replied. "She's performing at the top with Tricstarr—of course she's using the private lift. Ugh, I'd sell my soul for one selfie with her."
"Her stylist just posted a story from inside. She's already up there. That dress—insane!"
He adjusted his coat collar as he studied the situation.
"Getting to the top won't be easy. Public elevators are probably locked off for the day. Main entrance is crawling with fans and press... VIPs only through the front."
His eyes traced the mirrored glass walls of the tower as they soared above—untouchable, smooth, reflective. No way in from the outside.
Then, left of the main plaza, something less polished caught his attention: a narrow service alley behind the tower. Delivery truck. Staff entrance. No fanfare. Fewer eyes.
"Maybe…"
He moved with the shifting tide of the crowd, steps light, body angled just so—intentional, forgettable. He slipped past a group of girls giggling in front of a cardboard cutout of Tricstarr. One threw up a peace sign, another mimicked his iconic flourish. Their laughter rang out, covering the soft scuff of Ren's boots on the pavement.
"Service routes. Maintenance access. Every building like this has them. If I can get to a staff elevator or a stairwell…"
He kept walking, head down but eyes alert, scanning corners, signage, and the ebb of foot traffic. The Convention Center was designed like a glittering maze—wide walkways flanked by LED billboards, glass-paneled balconies overlooking lower floors, and floating drones occasionally snapping pictures of cosplayers and guests. The scent of cinnamon churros, hot plastic, and fabric softener clung to the air.
A security checkpoint loomed near the eastern concourse, just past the merch hall entrance. Black uniforms. Earpieces. One guard munched absentmindedly on a protein bar while the other argued softly into a walkie.
Ren cut right, into a thin hallway between two utility kiosks.
A trio of tech staff exited from a door labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY – HVAC & MAINTENANCE, dragging carts stacked with AV cables and toolbox cases. They laughed about something—one of them, a stocky guy in a Tricstarr hoodie, said:
"Dude, they seriously installed the whole rig backwards. The mezzanine lights were pulsing like a horror movie."
"Bet you a thousand yen it was Hayato," the woman beside him said, balancing a clipboard. "It's always Hayato."
"Make it two thousand," the third chimed in, adjusting a lanyard around his neck.
Ren followed at a distance, timing his pace. When the door began to slowly swing shut behind them, he slipped forward—fingers brushing the cold handle just in time—and pulled it open enough to vanish inside.
Inside, the corridor was cold and smelled like copper and paint. The hum of machinery vibrated through the concrete floor. Pipes ran overhead, gleaming under flickering fluorescent lights. There were directional signs in yellow and red: Service Lift – EAST, Maintenance Shaft A, Main Power Room.
He moved quickly, ears tuned to the thump of distant music and the occasional clang of metal deeper in the complex. A service elevator rested in a niche at the end of the hall. No security cameras here—too mundane, too overlooked.
Ren slipped the watch Miss Yue had given him from under his sleeve.
Its black surface shimmered slightly in the fluorescent lighting. He tapped the side, and the screen bloomed with flickering arcs of golden essence threads, spider-webbing outward from a central point. A compass needle spun, then steadied.
Tracking active. Essence signature: 47%.
He frowned.
"That's… low."
The elevator dinged as he called it. Inside, bare metal walls, a panel with unlabeled buttons. He pressed the one marked Level 3. The elevator lurched and began to rise.
Essence signature: 42%.
"What?"
He frowned deeper. The number dropped again. 38%. The higher he went, the weaker the signal.
He stopped at Level 3. A long maintenance catwalk overlooked the top of the expo floor—pipes, fans, spider-like rigging. Below, colorful chaos churned—stalls of merchandise, flowing crowds, photo ops.
But nothing here felt wrong. Just noise and flashing lights.
Essence signature: 32%.
He glanced at the number again.
Still dropping.
"…No way the source is up here," he murmured. "It's below."
He jabbed the elevator's button panel and tapped B2—the lowest basement level.
The elevator groaned in protest, old mechanics grinding behind the walls. The lights overhead dimmed slightly, and a soft clatter echoed from above like something loose had shifted on the cable. Ren shifted his weight, hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the short blade strapped beneath his coat.
With a dull ding, the doors opened to a dim, desolate corridor. Stark concrete walls. Low ceilings threaded with pipes. The air was colder here—still, with the faint coppery scent of rust and disinfectant. Pale bulbs flickered overhead, casting long shadows across industrial tiles.
He stepped out.
The watch pinged.
Essence signature: 52%.
A spike. A definite spike.
"There you are…" he whispered.
The hairs on his arms stood up, and not just from the temperature.
He turned left, following the signal.
A sound stopped him cold.
Footsteps. Soft but deliberate. Coming from around the bend.
Not his.
Ren darted to the wall, body pressed into the shadowed crook of a structural support beam. A beam of light cut through the gloom, sweeping lazily across the corridor.
A security guard rounded the corner, humming under his breath—slightly out of tune. Familiar. A song from a pop idol Ren vaguely remembered from a few months back.
"…get your glow on, get your show on… yeah, yeah…"
The guard stopped at a door a few meters down, fishing for a keycard from a pocket. He swiped it, metal clinking as he fiddled with the handle.
Ren's eyes scanned the space—a stack of heavy crates, half-covered by a dust-streaked tarp, sat across the corridor.
Go.
In one breathless burst, Ren crossed the open gap. Boots silent against the floor. He slid behind the crates, heart hammering in his ears.
The flashlight paused.
"…hello?" the guard called out, voice uncertain.
Silence.
Ren didn't move.
"…must be the damn fans again…"
The door creaked open, and the guard vanished inside, mumbling something about the fusebox.
Ren exhaled, slow and shallow.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then he moved.
Through another door, into a deeper corridor.
But unlike the service shafts above, this one was… different.
The concrete gave way to polished stone tiles, black with subtle gold veining. The walls were a warm taupe, inlaid with wood paneling and backlit trim. Decorative sconces cast soft amber light, no flicker, no hum—perfect, intentional, expensive. A faint trace of sandalwood lingered in the air, refined and calculated. Even the air itself felt different—climate-controlled, still but breathable, carrying no trace of industrial dust.
It felt like stepping into the private wing of a five-star hotel. Or the backstage chamber of a monarch.
Ren slowed.
The juxtaposition rattled him—this whole place shouldn't exist. Not below the service corridors, not beneath the pounding crowds of a convention center. It was hidden, but not forgotten. Maintained. Revered.
There were no crates here. No cobwebs. Just sleek benches with velvet cushions, ornate mirrors framed in brass, and a sculpture of something winged and otherworldly set into an alcove.
A low, rhythmic pulse reverberated through the floor beneath his boots.
Faint, steady.
Like a second heartbeat stitched into the bones of the building.
The watch pulsed in tandem.
Essence signature: 63%.
Then, without warning—
74%. 85%. 91%.
Ren's breath hitched.
100%. Source detected.
He froze, pulse thudding in his ears.
At the end of the corridor stood a door unlike the others. Not industrial. Not security-issue.
This one was beautiful.
Tall and wide, with a high arch and a surface of lacquered black wood inlaid with a tracery of gold leaf—ancient sigils swirling across its face, unfamiliar yet arresting. A velvet rope had once been drawn across the handles, now undone and hanging limply to one side.
The door stood slightly ajar.
A warm, amber-gold light spilled out into the hallway—not harsh, not artificial, but rich and radiant. It painted the corridor in soft gradients of crimson and violet at the edges, like the glow of sunset seen through stained glass.