The room is quiet. Soft lighting hums overhead. Akutagawa sits rigid at the desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The screen glows before him — a chat window, open, waiting. He doesn't know who set this up. He doesn't know why he's here.
Rashomon coils faintly at his collar, restless. He coughs into his sleeve, then stares at the cursor blinking on screen.
He types.
...Who are you.
He waits. His jaw is tight. His eyes don't leave the screen.