ACT I9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJGoHr4zRxi
CHAPTER 1: NEW BEGINNINGS, OLD WOUNDS9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUN8df2YqBQ
DATE: 04.04.20139Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ570cam9MkQ
LOCATION: SHIBUYA UNIVERSITY CAMPUS — 8:15 AM9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8goHqU0JSZ
9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwPIzU6EwW0
Kenji Tanaka hauled the final cardboard box into his narrow dorm room, the hinges of the door protesting with a squeal. Sunlight slanted through the single window, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny spirits in the air. The walls were bare, save for a single poster tube leaning against a chipped radiator; in moments, he’d unroll it—map of Tokyo—and pin it above the desk.
A layer of anticipation settled in his chest. University. A fresh start. He fumbled in his pocket and found his new student ID, its holographic seal flickering with every tilt. “Shibuya University,” it read. He pressed it against his palm like a promise to himself: this was his chance to step out of his father’s long shadow.
A knock sounded. Kenji straightened his back, readying a polite smile.
Takumi (through door): “Um—excuse me? You’re Tanaka‑kun, right?”
Kenji opened the door to reveal Takumi Kishida, his roommate. Takumi was tall and lean, with neatly combed hair and an earnest expression. He carried two steaming mugs of green tea on a small tray.
Takumi: “Welcome to 2B. I thought you might like something warm before class.”
Kenji accepted a mug, the tea’s scent calming him. “Thanks, Takumi. I—I really appreciate it.”
Takumi nodded, placing the tray on the desk. “I’m on the soccer team, so I’ll get back late tonight. If you need anything—text me.”
Kenji (thought): No roommate horror stories here.
Takumi smiled and retreated down the hall, shoes whispering against the linoleum. Kenji set the tea beside the laptop and glanced around: an empty bookshelf, a single bed with a rumpled sheet, a tiny closet. Functional. Bare. His life in boxes.
Down the corridor, voices drifted—laughter, the scrape of a dorm key. Kenji followed the sound and rounded the corner into the communal lounge. Aiko Sakamoto lounged on a couch, legs curled beneath her, sketchbook in hand. Satoshi Ito paced nearby, flipping through a flyer.
Aiko: “There you are! Takumi said you might be lost.”
Kenji: “Just exploring. I’m Kenji.”
Aiko: “Aiko. And this chatterbox is Satoshi.” She nudged him playfully.
Satoshi (grinning): “Freshers’ fair is tonight—clubs, freebies, maybe a chance to find your calling.”
Kenji: “I’ve never been big on clubs.”
Aiko’s green eyes softened. “Okay—no pressure. But if you change your mind, look for the Engineering Guild. I’m in their robotics circle.”
Kenji managed a smile. “Got it.”
Satoshi waved his flyer. “Drama club! Music society! Ramen appreciation club! They’ve got everything.”
Kenji laughed for the first time that morning. It felt good.
By 8:45 AM, Kenji found himself stepping onto the sunlit quad. Cherry blossoms drifted like pale confetti, students stretched on benches, and a UCS patrol van rolled by—its white-and-blue livery unmistakable. Guards in tactical gear stood in the back, rifles slung and visors down.
Kenji (thought): Still can’t shake those uniforms.
The van’s side panel read: “UCS – Vestige Containment & Regulation Division.” A small speaker crackled:
[UCS ANNOUNCEMENT]: “Reminder: Feeding hours for contained Vestiges in Zones B2 and C3 begin at 10:00 AM. Unauthorized contact prohibited.”
Students barely glanced up. In Tokyo’s uneasy peace, Vestiges weren’t front‑page terror anymore—they were regulated threats.
Kenji took a deep breath. Here, he could be just another student.
As he passed a sakura tree, a memory flared: fifteen‑year‑old Kenji, standing in their tiny living room, watching his father suit up in UCS black‑armor, face set with determination. Riku Amasaki had wrapped his son in a quick hug.
Riku (softly): “Stay safe, Kenji.”
Kenji had nodded, eyes bright. That night, rumors said a Vestige went rogue. His father marched in—and never came back.
Kenji blinked, shaking the memory away. No more dwelling on it, he told himself. I’m here now.
At 9:00 AM, he slipped into a packed auditorium for his first class—“Bio‑Security 101.” The professor, Dr. Hirota, cleared his throat:
Dr. Hirota: “Welcome to all new biology majors. As you know, Tokyo’s greatest challenge these days isn’t climate change or robotics—it’s Vestiges.”
Kenji’s pulse quickened. He sank into a seat near the back, notebook and pen at the ready.
Dr. Hirota (continuing): “Vestiges are sentient parasitic organisms. Thanks to UCS research, many can live in controlled environments. But containment failures still occur—remember that incident in Minato three weeks ago.”
A slide appeared: surveillance footage of a containment breach, red‑eyed host thrashing in a reinforced chamber. Students murmured.
Dr. Hirota: “By semester’s end, you’ll design containment protocols for simulated outbreaks. Consider this your chance to make a difference.”
Kenji listened, heart hammering with both fear and purpose. In this class, he might learn why his father never returned.
At noon, Kenji met Aiko and Satoshi in the campus food court—a cavernous glass‑roofed hall buzzing with vendors. He ordered ramen; they got curry and sushi.
Satoshi: “So, how’s your first class?”
Kenji: “Intense. Learned more about Vestiges in one lecture than I ever wanted.”
Aiko studied him over her tea. “You don’t have to—”
Kenji (cutting in, quietly): “I know. But… Dad was UCS. If I’m going into this field, I want to know why he died.”
Aiko reached across the table, touching his hand. “You’ll figure it out—one step at a time.”
He nodded, warmed by her support.
Back in his room at 2:00 PM, Kenji unpacked the poster: a stylized map of Tokyo’s districts, overlaid with UCS containment zones. He pinned it above his desk. Beneath it, in pencil, he wrote: Zone C3 – Feeding hours 10 AM–12 PM; 4 PM–6 PM.
His laptop pinged: a university alert. He opened it:
“ALL STUDENTS: Tonight at 7 PM—Violence‑Reduction Seminar hosted by UCS. Attendance voluntary but recommended.”
A fold of unease tightened in his gut. UCS seminars were never casual.
He closed the message and exhaled.
Kenji (thought): New world. Old wounds. Let’s see if I can survive this.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgBsgt3bS16
At 6:30 PM, Kenji found himself in the quad again—this time under strings of lanterns and club banners fluttering in the spring breeze. Music blared from a stage where a rock band of anime‑enthusiasts shredded a cover of a popular theme song.
Rows of booths lined the sidewalks:
Biotech Club: students wearing lab coats, handing out glow‑in‑the‑dark bracelets.
Medical Support Society: future UCS medics offering free bandages and brochures on first aid.
Urban Exploration Guild: flyers showing graffiti‑covered tunnels and abandoned subway stations.
Satoshi grinned and dragged Kenji to the Biotech Club. Aiko followed, laughing. For a moment, Kenji let himself feel—normal college life, promising and bright.
But as he turned, he caught sight of a lone figure in the shadows beneath a cherry tree: a black‑uniformed UCS officer scanning the crowd, expression unreadable. The officer’s visor glinted.
Kenji’s heart thudded. The past and present intersected again.
He shook his head. Focus on the fair.
But the feeling lingered—a whisper of warning. And somewhere in the night air, beyond the lantern glow, something watched.
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