Far from the neon-bathed chaos of Neo-Tokyo and the corporate sprawl of Nakamura City, the mists curl thick and perpetual over Inugami Hollow—a remote, anachronistic village hidden within a forest that maps no longer mark. Time feels slower here. The roads are unpaved, the internet weak and flickering, and the air always carries the faint, acrid tang of something smoldering. The villagers whisper with an edge of fear behind their hospitality. Outsiders don't last long here. Some never leave.
Into this fog walks Detective Kyohei Aomine, a hard-nosed Tokyo officer with a record for surviving impossible cases and a mind too restless for retirement. Officially, he's investigating the disappearance of Kazuo Tanabe, a mid-tier bureaucrat in the Ministry of Agriculture who went off-grid after reporting anomalies in farm subsidies flowing into Inugami Hollow. The only name attached to the case? Shiro Enma—a local agricultural entrepreneur whose records are as pristine as they are oddly theatrical.
To keep a low profile, Kyohei assumes the cover of a nature vlogger, lugging camera gear and droning on about bird calls and fungus habitats for the benefit of the village's curious eyes. He establishes himself quickly, performing the part of the harmless outsider. But he's watching. Listening.
At a quaint, incense-perfumed tea shop run by an elderly couple, Kyohei hears it for the first time: "Ah, Shiro-sama? He's… one of a kind." Laughter follows. "Lives in that manor up the ridge—thinks life's a stage play. Cosplays like it's his religion. Got a little castle full of farmhands who all act in scenes. Good tea, though." The villagers mock him gently, as one might a court jester who's too rich to offend. But beneath the teasing is something tighter. Less joyful. A warning in disguise.
There's also the legend. Always told in hushed tones, eyes scanning the mist.
"Anger Shiro, and the dogs come. Not just any dogs—his dogs. Trained, hungry, perfect."
Curious, cautious, and wired for tension, Kyohei visits the Enma estate—a sprawling, European-style manor perched above a terraced hillside of greenhouses and kennels. Shiro greets him in a vibrant ninja costume, performing a mock duel with a guard wielding a rubber katana. He's charismatic, theatrical, deeply unsettling. He insists Kyohei join him for a tour, slipping in and out of personas with a flair that borders on mania.
Shiro's wife, Miyuki, is soft-spoken and endlessly polite, seemingly unaware—or willfully blind—to her husband's strangeness. Their daughter, Kana, no older than eight, plays with wooden animal figurines and sketches dogs in chalk on stone walls. Always dogs.
At first, Kyohei chalks it up to a cracked ego with a rural empire and too much money. But something festers under the theatrics.
That night, during a fog-thickened walk back through the fields, Kyohei hears snarling. Growls. Then a scream. He runs toward the sound, finding a man being mauled—precision attacks, throat and tendons, the dogs coordinated like a strike team. He fights them off with a flare and pulls the man to safety.
The victim? Detective Yamada, thought to be missing for weeks.
Bleeding and trembling, Yamada reveals the truth in gasps:
"Shiro's no clown. He runs a narcotics ring buried under his farms—hidden labs under the greenhouses. Tanabe tried to audit him. Found too much. Too fast."
"Shiro trains dogs for attack—silent, deadly, surgical. Pure bio-conditioning. His security system doesn't need men."
"No fingerprints. No weapons. No humans involved. And no law can indict a dog."
Kyohei reels. A detective's worst nightmare: a criminal who's untouchable because his enforcers aren't human.
Later, while combing an abandoned lighthouse used by the coast guard, Kyohei uncovers salvaged drone footage from a shipwreck rescue mission nearby. In the grainy visuals, framed by broken glass and ocean wind, stands Shiro Enma, arms outstretched on the rocks as soaked dogs crawl ashore beside him like soldiers returning from war.
Then the audio kicks in—crackling, eerie, unmistakably clear.
"You want to shut me down? Let me shut you up."
The screen blurs as one dog turns toward the camera. Then static.
Inugami Hollow is no longer just a foggy backwater. It's a crucible of terror, and Kyohei knows the walls are closing in. He sends the footage to an encrypted channel. But as he returns to the village, the barking begins again—closer this time. Measured. Commanded.
Somewhere in the dark, Shiro is watching.