The sun sinks below the horizon, and Tokyo holds its breath. The city's restless pulse continues-neon lights flicker, engines growl, voices weave together into a chaotic symphony-yet something unseen slithers beneath the surface. A presence. An ache in the air. The stillness is unnatural, the kind that clings to the bones, whispering of things unseen. It is the calm before a storm that refuses to break.

Yuzuha Hinamiyo walks these streets like a goddess among mortals, her very existence a shimmering illusion. At twenty-two, she is Japan's brightest star, a face immortalized on billboards, magazine covers, and television screens. Her smile, perfected into a masterpiece of warmth and allure, reaches every corner of the country. And yet, behind the illusion, she is a prisoner. The cage of her own success glitters like gold, but the bars are unyielding. Tonight, the weight of it is suffocating.

Her heels click against the pavement, sharp and deliberate, each step unnervingly loud in her ears. The world around her blurs at the edges, slipping away, leaving her stranded in a realm both familiar and foreign. Something lingers in the air, unseen yet palpable, weaving itself into the night, into her skin, into her very breath.

Suffocating. The word claws at her mind. She grips the strap of her purse tighter. Another photoshoot. Another interview. Another set of eyes watching, consuming, devouring. When does it end?

She inhales sharply, tilting her chin toward the sky. The wind tugs at her long black hair, sending it swirling around her face, but even the night air cannot loosen the unseen grip coiling around her lungs. Something is wrong. The city is watching, waiting, anticipating. Even the neon signs seem to flicker with something sentient.

"Yuzuha-san! Yuzuha-san! Can I have an autograph?"

The voice shatters her spiraling thoughts. She doesn't need to turn to know the crowd has formed around her, eager and adoring. Their faces blur, their voices meld into a distant hum. Her smile appears, flawless and automatic, but it is hollow. She signs, she poses, she speaks-but she is not there.

They see the golden cage, but they will never notice the bars.

When the crowd dissolves into the night, she exhales a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Yet the foreboding does not leave her. It clings to her skin, an invisible shroud of unease.

Her apartment looms ahead, towering and pristine, a glass castle under the city lights. She keys in the access code. No click. A frown. She tries again.

Invalid.

Her heart stutters. Again. The red warning flashes. Her pulse pounds, a drumbeat against the silence. With trembling fingers, she presses her thumb against the scanner. A pause. Then, the door unlocks-but the unease thickens, pressing against her ribs.

She steps inside, and the air changes. Heavy. Foreign. Wrong. The faint scent of jasmine candles lingers, but beneath it, something else festers, something cold, something dark.

The door clicks shut behind her, the sound too final, too loud. She stiffens. The apartment is still. Too still. Her gaze sweeps the room-nothing out of place. Yet dread creeps along her spine, whispering that something has shifted.

Her eyes catch the mirror at the end of the hallway. A flicker. A trick of the light? A color-blue. Faint, almost imperceptible. But when she focuses, it is gone.

She lets out a breath, shaky and brittle. I'm just tired. Overworked.

She takes a step forward. Then stops.

The feeling tightens, pressing, suffocating. Someone is watching her.

The room shrinks. Her breath comes in shallow gasps. Slowly, cautiously, she turns. The hallway yawns before her, empty. Yet her instincts scream.

A memory claws at her mind: the sound of a door clicking shut. She never locked it.

Then, she sees them-eyes. Icy blue. Burning. Watching.

Her blood turns to ice.

She blinks. They vanish. The silence is unbearable, thick enough to drown in.

Panic claws at her throat. She stumbles toward the window, searching for the city below. Tokyo's lights flicker, their glow stretching into the dark like skeletal fingers reaching for her.

She is not alone. The certainty slams into her, deep and unshakable.

Her gaze flicks back to the hallway. At its end, where the shadows breathe, something moves.

A figure stands there. Still. Waiting.

Those eyes-blue, unrelenting-pierce through the dark.

And then, as swiftly as they appeared, they are gone.Leaving only the silence to consume her.