A week later.
Tokyo Bay churned from dawn.
Thick rain clouds loomed, cloaking the daytime sky in near-night darkness. The sea's surface gleamed black and murky, whipped into high waves by fierce winds—a full-blown storm.
Amid it, a lone ship sailed.
The prisoner transport vessel, Yomotsu Hirasaka.
Its gray steel frame jutted starkly, exuding a grim, utilitarian aura. Machine guns and anti-submarine mortars lined the deck, marking it not as a civilian ship but one built for combat. And no wonder—Yomotsu Hirasaka was a refurbished PL-class patrol vessel from the old Japan Coast Guard, modified extensively. A two-story cellblock now stood where a heliport once was, rendering the ship clunky and ungainly.
But the weaponry wasn't aimed outward at external threats. It was meant to stop escapees from within.
Having left Osaka Bay, the ship skirted the Kii Peninsula, headed north past the Izu Peninsula, and passed through the Uraga Channel. Ahead lay the vast inner sea.
And in it, Yomotsu Hirasaka sailed alone. No matter the weather, Tokyo Bay's waters once bustled with massive ships—back when Tokyo was still called the capital.
The Tokyo Special Containment Zone, or as it was known, the Prison City: Tokyo.
Thirty years ago, individuals with supernatural abilities—called Ghosts—began appearing worldwide. Japan was no exception. The Ghost population exploded, sparking conflicts and friction with ordinary humans, escalating into full-blown social issues.
The government, pressed for a solution, chose total isolation.
Tokyo, then home to the most Ghosts, was designated a Special Containment Zone—a Prison City. Encircled by the Kanto Great Outer Shell, a 300-meter-high wall spanning the former 23 wards, it severed all contact with the outside world.
Ghosts from across Japan were hunted down and sent there.
Yomotsu Hirasaka was on that very mission, transporting prisoners—Ghosts—to the Prison City. Its cellblocks were packed tight with them.
Miyuki Amamiya was in one such cell.
The ship's interior was dim, heavy with damp air. Rust from the aging hull mingled with the stench of human sweat, making it hard to breathe. No windows offered a view outside, but the floor's rhythmic swaying confirmed they were still at sea.
In a cramped six-mat room, Miyuki and four others were confined. All men, of varying ages. A sturdy iron grate sealed the entrance, beyond which a corridor stretched, lined with identical cells.
Occasionally, guards patrolled the corridor. They looked like special forces—black helmets, body armor covering torso and limbs, assault rifles slung over shoulders. Bullet scars marred the ship's interior, proof the guards' weapons weren't mere threats. Each patrol brought a tense, electric atmosphere.
Miyuki leaned against the cell wall, sitting cross-legged. The others mirrored her posture. At first, they stood, but one by one, they sank to the floor. The metal was cold, damp, and unforgiving—comfort was nonexistent. Locked in the dim cell, time blurred, but they'd likely reach Tokyo by day's end. A few more hours to endure.
Miyuki wore a black hooded coat and jeans—typical for a young adult. She'd chosen the most practical outfit from the few provided by the Hibarigaoka Research Center. But heavy handcuffs and a collar, forced on by the guards upon boarding, weighed her down. Marked with the number "205," they matched those worn by her four cellmates, each likely bearing unique numbers.
The cell was silent, everyone leaning against walls, until one broke the quiet, unable to bear it.
"Damn it… how'd it come to this!?" he groaned. "My life's over…!"
A white-haired man in his sixties, with a square haircut, wore a blue apron labeled "Inaba Liquor Store." Inaba, the shopkeeper, clutched his head, despair in his voice. Deep wrinkles lined his gentle eyes, heavy with sorrow.
A man across from him clicked his tongue. In his early fifties, dressed in a sleeveless down jacket and baseball cap, he looked ready for outdoor leisure. A thick beard framed his mouth. His name was Kawahara, if Miyuki recalled.
"Shut up," Kawahara snapped. "I don't wanna hear your whining. We're all in the same boat—just for being Ghosts!"
His irritation was palpable.
The man beside Inaba, in a gray suit, flinched. Mid-thirties, thin, with glasses and neatly parted hair, he was Tanaka. "What happens in Tokyo?" he stammered. "It's a prison, right? Even a city hall clerk like me… can I survive there?"
Tanaka's timid nature showed in his restless finger-tapping on the floor. To Miyuki, he seemed desperate to stay calm.
Another young man, leaning against a different wall, sighed. "A prison with no guards, huh?" he said. "Oh, I'm Kyuto, by the way. Freeter."
Kyuto, in his early twenties, had dyed brown hair and a pierced ear, like a street musician. He gave a resigned, self-mocking smile.
Silence fell again, broken only by the creaking of the old ship. Then Inaba leaned forward, whispering urgently. "What about escaping? There's still time!"
The others barely reacted. Kyuto shrugged. "Nah, bad idea. Not with these transport restraints," he said, pointing to the handcuffs and collars. According to the guards, they had GPS tracking and would unleash thousands of watts of electricity if tampered with or if someone fled.
Even if you disabled them, armed guards and the ship's defenses stood in the way. Beyond that? The open sea offered no escape. No Ghost had ever escaped Yomotsu Hirasaka.
"What even is a Ghost!?" Kawahara growled. "They said I showed a Ghost reaction, but I don't even know my Animus!"
Tanaka, with a strained half-smile, nodded. "I heard most never learn their Animus before they die…"
Ghosts' mysterious powers, called Animus, remained an enigma—origin and mechanics unknown. Despite global research, little was understood. What was clear: most Ghosts were ordinary people who suddenly awakened supernatural abilities. These varied widely—manipulating elements like fire or water, turning invisible, or controlling minds. Some said there were as many Animus types as Ghosts.
These fantastical powers bred fear, disgust, and conflict in society, quickly escalating into major rifts.
Now, Ghosts distorted human society itself.
(But that's not the whole problem, Miyuki thought.)
The isolation policy had a flaw: not all Ghosts awakened clear powers. They emitted a unique electromagnetic wave—Animus waves—but strength varied. Those with weak waves rarely manifested distinct abilities, living like ordinary humans. Yet they were still branded Ghosts and sent to Tokyo.
Likely, most in this cell were such cases, explaining their anxious faces.
"Enough!" Inaba groaned, clutching his head. Kawahara glared but said nothing, too annoyed to argue. Instead, he turned to Miyuki. "Hey, kid, you've been quiet. Know something?"
"…Nothing," Miyuki replied softly.
"I don't know anything. I just woke up from cold sleep…"
Kyuto blinked, curious. "Cold… what?"
"Cold sleep," Tanaka chimed in, excited. "Like in sci-fi movies—human cryopreservation!"
All eyes turned to him. Embarrassed, he added, "Sorry, I'm a big movie buff, especially sci-fi…"
"So, what, you were frozen like a fish?" Inaba asked, blinking.
Kawahara glared at Miyuki. "That's ridiculous. Never heard of it. Why freeze someone? Who benefits?"
Miyuki stayed silent. She didn't have all the answers—why this happened, what to do next. A product of twenty years ago, she knew less than they did. Questions, yes; answers, no.
But unlike them, Miyuki had chosen this trip to Tokyo. Born and raised there, she had countless things to confirm: her parents, school, friends, old comrades.
Explaining that, though, wouldn't make them understand. She pulled her hood lower, dodging Kawahara's gaze.
"Ignoring me, huh?" Kawahara muttered.
"Pretty cool," Kyuto said, shrugging with Tanaka.
Kawahara scowled, muttering, "Kids these days…"
"Might be smart," Inaba said. "Talking changes nothing. Waste of energy."
With a heavy sigh, he fell silent, resigned.
Silence returned, unbroken by further words.