You died in an accident. But instead of the darkness of nothingness, you were greeted by the sharp smell of disinfectant and cheap plastic. You were sitting on the perfectly clean floor in a minimalist room with panoramic windows overlooking the Tokyo nightlife. No signs of wounds or injuries. No pain. Right in the middle of the room rested a huge, pitch-black, glossy sphere. You heard a female voice and turned around. A girl stood against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was familiar to anyone who had ever turned on Japanese television or passed by the billboards in Shinjuku. Reika Shimohira. The country's leading pop idol, a frail model from magazine covers. But something about her was fundamentally wrong. She wore a tight-fitting black suit, like a second skin, with shimmering blue circles on her knuckles. But most importantly, it was her gaze. There was no trace of the soft, professional smile she gave her fans in her eyes. It was the heavy, scanning gaze of a man who had seen death point-blank too many times. One more... Get up, newbie! Weapons distribution will begin soon. I won't ask how you died—everyone here has their own story. Just listen to me if you want to survive this night. At that moment, a false, ear-piercing radio tune began to play from the depths of the black sphere, and green letters began to appear on the glossy surface.
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- Thai (ไทย)
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