chapter 0.5 — ss2
Shibuya — Tokyo
A terrifying and unforgettable night has passed for Shibuya.
Yet its shadow remained, clinging stubbornly to the ruins of Shibuya like a curse that refused to fade.
The air was thick—unnaturally so—saturated with the acrid stench of smoke, burned asphalt, and something far worse. It was the smell of a city that had screamed until its voice was stripped away. Each breath scraped the lungs, heavy and oppressive, as if the atmosphere itself had been scorched alongside the streets.
What remained of Shibuya lay frozen in silence.
The once-vibrant avenues—symbols of Tokyo's prosperity—had collapsed into blackened corridors of death. The ground was cracked and warped, the asphalt peeled open like charred flesh. Scattered across the streets were shapes that no longer deserved to be called bodies: carbonized remains reduced to rigid silhouettes. Here and there, a single hand remained intact—dry, blackened fingers reaching upward, locked forever between pleading and despair.
Skyscrapers that once pierced the sky now stood hollow, skeletal frames of steel and concrete. Their glass had shattered long ago, their interiors burned clean. No color survived the night. Only black layered upon black, swallowing everything indiscriminately.
Then, the silence was crushed.
A low mechanical growl echoed through the streets as armored vehicles rolled forward, breaching the perimeter barriers of the Japan Self-Defense Forces. Officially, these barricades existed to protect civilians. In truth, they were designed to seal away reality itself.
Following the armored convoy came massive transport trucks, each carrying containers the size of small houses. Their exteriors bore familiar corporate logos—Mitsubishi, clean and reassuring. But beneath those symbols lay something far more sinister: a mechanism dedicated to erasing truth.
Heavy tires advanced without hesitation, grinding over debris—and bodies alike. The remains of anomalous creatures scattered across the streets were crushed under steel and rubber. Bones, flesh, and things that had never truly been human were reduced to unrecognizable stains.
The convoy halted at the center of a ruined plaza.
With a prolonged hiss, refrigerated containers opened.
Men in dark suits descended, their faces concealed behind masks, hands covered in pristine white gloves. They moved with quiet efficiency, kneeling beside the remains of civilians whose bodies had been carbonized beyond recognition. Nearby, soldiers dragged the corpses of Anomalies onto armored trucks, while others meticulously erased traces of anything supernatural.
Assault rifles—AK-74s—were deliberately placed on the ground. Some were smashed, bent, rendered unusable. Props. Evidence fabricated to construct a familiar narrative: a conventional terrorist attack.
A story that those who don't know the truth believe to be true.
Elsewhere in the plaza, beneath harsh floodlights, a middle-aged man sat motionless.
Makeup artists worked in silence. His hair was deliberately disheveled further, dark circles painted beneath his eyes until he looked hollowed out. His clothes were torn just enough to imply chaos, but not enough to invite suspicion. Over and over, he rehearsed the script—each word drilled into memory, polished to replace reality.
Camera crews checked equipment one final time. No reflections. No glitches. No mistakes.
When the man raised his hand to signal readiness, a soft blanket was draped over his shoulders. He was guided into a medical vehicle. The camera feed went live.
An NHK reporter stepped into frame—posture composed, voice steady. He was a professional, someone who had reported tragedy so often that grief had become procedural.
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NHK Reporter
> "This is NHK News. Last night, extremist Islamic terrorists carried out an armed assault against civilians in Shibuya, Tokyo, resulting in significant casualties and severe structural damage. By 1:00 a.m., units of the Japan Self-Defense Forces successfully suppressed the attack and began rescue operations for civilians trapped beneath the rubble…"
The camera slowly shifted toward the man seated inside the medical vehicle. His expression was vacant, unfocused, as if part of him had never returned from the night before. His body trembled—controlled, practiced, convincing.
The reporter inhaled quietly before continuing.
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NHK Reporter
> "This is Mr. Suzuki, discovered by JSDF medical personnel inside a corporate building in southern Shibuya after the incident. Sir, if you don't mind, could you tell us what happened—and how this event has affected you?"
The man's demeanor changed instantly.
Fear surfaced. Hesitation. A fragile panic.
He clutched his head, shoulders curling inward as though pressed down by an invisible weight. His voice emerged weak and unsteady.
---
Actor
> "Oh… God… they… they stormed into our company…"
He bent forward, trembling. Tears spilled onto the blanket. To anyone watching, it was the raw grief of a survivor who had watched his coworkers die before his eyes.
The reporter followed protocol, placing a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder.
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NHK Reporter
> "Please remain calm. We understand your pain… but your testimony may help prevent similar acts of terrorism in the future."
The man slowly raised his head.
What followed was delivered with such devastating authenticity that truth itself became irrelevant.
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Actor
> "They killed my colleagues… crushed them… destroyed everything…"
A sharp, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Then—
An explosion.
The man's head vanished instantly.
Blood and fragments sprayed outward. The reporter froze, eyes wide, as something warm splattered across his face.
Screams erupted.
Soldiers of Kuroi Sakura rushed forward, shielding the reporter as gunfire echoed through the ruins. Smoke and dust engulfed the plaza.
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Soldier 1
> "Cut the feed! Civilians must not see this—!"
Before the broadcast could fully terminate, another explosion detonated.
The reporter collapsed, lifeless. Blood pooled across the cracked pavement.
The metallic click of grenade pins echoed.
Blinding flashes erupted. Gas flooded the area. Soldiers dropped one by one, consciousness stolen before terror could fully register.
From surrounding buildings, new figures emerged.
Brown suits. Black sunglasses. White gloves.
Across their backs was a single emblem:
FDC — Freedom Detective Council
They moved without hesitation. Cameras captured the remains of Anomalies. Others documented planted weapons, civilian corpses, and the insignia of Kuroi Sakura. Evidence was collected with precision.
They were not heroes.
They were witnesses.
In a world ruled by silence and manufactured lies, they existed for one reason alone:
What is concealed must exist.
And what exists must be dragged into the light.
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[To be continued]
The secret revealed by the author:
season 2 will be much more intense and chaotic than season 1, with the freedom and fiery intensity of battles like war anthems. i I