April 6th, 2031
RING RING! RING RING! RING RING!
"Hello–?"
"This message is prerecorded. Please do not hang up."
"M.E.L.I.N.D.A? What's going–"
Her father's voice cut her off.
"Alina, if you're hearing this, it means something's gone wrong. They're onto me. I don't have much time, and I can't risk talking live. They could be listening. In my office. Remember that time you, your mum, and I ate ice cream before Uncle Yuzo's wedding? You'll know the date. That's the key. The information's all there. I love you, Alina. I'm sorry."
The line went dead.
Alina hadn't seen her dad in weeks, and that's the first message she gets?
She didn't know what was happening, but she did know one thing – she had to get to his office. Fast.
***
Alina handed a ¥5,000 bill to the taxi driver.
"Thank you very much for the ride. Please keep the change."
She didn't want loose bills and scattered coins clinking in her pocket – classic spy movie mistake.
As she left the taxi, the dark wasn't what hit her first – it was the cold.
Not winter's deep freeze, but that early spring sting – the kind of cold that clung, the kind of cold that didn't want you there. It lingered around her as she approached the gate.
A keypad.
Uh oh. His birthday?
She typed in a combination of numbers.
ERRR-ERRR!
Mine?
She tried again.
ERRR-ERRR!
Maybe even the women he used to call his wife?
ERRR-ERRR!
A sigh. It was definitely some obscure Star Wars reference she didn't know.
Alina stretched her arms out, cracking her hands. She really did have to James Bond this.
She gripped the edge of the fence – black iron, smooth with age – and hoisted herself over. Her boots scraped against the top rail, just loud enough to make her wince, before she dropped into the backyard.
The house stood just ahead, tall and still. Clean brick. Dark windows. A single porch light flickering like it hadn't been changed in months. She remembered when it used to always be on.
It was nothing extravagant. Just too… neat. It felt more like a movie set than a home. The kind where silence was an overwhelming plot.
A small chuckle.
Dad always did live in the lab.
She took the long way around, past the side path lined with dormant hydrangeas and a little stone lantern she used to pretend was a fairy shrine. Funny. Back then, this place felt warm. Magical, even.
Now, it just felt empty.
She stepped up to the side entrance, reached beneath the tiny, carved fox statue she used to call 'Bill', and slid the spare key from a crack in Bill's stone base. Her father had insisted it be there for emergencies.
"This counts, right, Bill?"
Bill sat there.
I'll take that as a yes.
The metal stung as she fit it into the lock. One quiet click, and she slipped inside.
Varnished wood. Old coffee. That faint, clinical hint of sterilizer her father always swore by. The inside still smelled the same as it did the day she left.
The hallway lights buzzed to life as she stepped in – soft and warm. Pictures still hung neatly on the walls: Dad, Mum, and her. A moment frozen in time.
She paused…
…then shook her head.
No time for nostalgia.
She moved on, creeping up the mahogany stairs – not a normal Japanese household, but Dad insisted on making Mum feel at home.
Silent. Stealthy. She could've done it in her sleep.
Alina crept to the end of the hallway. The office.
She pulled the handle down and slid inside, easing the door shut behind her.
Office. Now what…
She scanned the office. Looking for clues.
The entire space was bathed in a faint orange glow bleeding in from the window. The room mirrored Takahashi perfectly – absent. The walls were a blank canvas of white, like they'd been installed rather than decorated. Knowing her father, they probably had. Somehow.
A dull, sterile scent wafted throughout the room: an artificial wood– no doubt from the hardwood floors.
Ice cream… Uncle Yuzo…
Her gaze drifted – until it landed on the painting.
Near the back, a desk crouched in shadow, barely lit by the soft blue glow of the monitor still humming faintly. Behind it, mounted on the wall: the painting
Alina stepped closer, her eyes zeroing in on a little white smear at the bottom of her dress in the painting. Another one on her dad's trousers too.
Ice cream.
Careful not to damage it, Alina slowly placed the painting off to the side, revealing a stainless steel safe.
Real megalomaniac, Dad. Now the date. When was it…? October… October… October 4th!
Alina, slight smirk on her face, typed it into the safe.
0-4-1-0
BEEP!
Thank you, beautiful brain.
The safe croaked open. Inside?
A piece of paper, a USB drive, and a brochure.
She unfolded the crumpled up piece of paper first. It was dated 29/03/25:
"Alina. If you're reading this. I'm probably dead. Prodigal caught me."
Dead? Prodigal? The VR company?
"I already know what you're thinking, and I thought that too. But they're doing something else. I don't know exactly what. But the work they're making me do? Wiping shell data, transferring player data – it doesn't look right to me. I'm wiping and transferring something, but I don't think it's just data."
Shell data? Player transfer data? Not just data?
"Look at the brochure. If they've gotten me, they might come for you next..."
Alina picked up the wrinkled, bright yellow glossy paper.
WHY YOUR CHILD SHOULD STUDY AT HANEGAWA HIGH!
"...It's calm, quiet, and – most importantly – Prodigal hasn't touched it yet. Not like Shirosei. I've already flagged your name as an exchange student with visa complications, so you should be able to transfer without delay. They won't find you there."
"I don't want you to chase danger, but I know you. You're a smart girl. You won't just stand by and let this happen…"
"...so I've gathered everything I have so far. The USB drive holds the rest."
"I hope your old man helped – even in a small way."
"I love you. Good luck."
A tear slid down her cheek.
Not now.
She could cry later – after she figured out what the hell was going on.
Stuffing the note into her pocket, Alina turned to the computer at the desk in front of her – a baby picture of her as the wallpaper – then plugged the USB drive in.
Two files popped up. She clicked on the first. It was a .txt file. A report.
"February 6th, 2031: The 'RIFT' has been open for 3 days now. Expeditionary Research Team (ERT) Epsilon-7 were successful in their procurement of approximately 10 KG of Substance Omega. In light of ERT Gamma-13's failure by attempting to use conventional weapons, all ERTs must be accompanied by an armed escort of no less than 10 combat personnel – each member must be fully trained in hand-to-hand combat.
Dr. [REDACTED]'s usage of Substance Omega has yielded promising results, with Subject 12 exhibiting a complete regression of Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) lesions within 72 hours of exposure.
Once the technology has been finalised, our next logical step is to initiate the [REDACTED] Protocol, and send non-Prodigal affiliated units past the mountain range."
Alina stood there. Confused. What did any of this mean? It didn't matter. She'd figure it out later. She took her phone, snapped a picture of the report, then moved onto the next file – this time a video.
She clicked on it.
[Video File: February 26th, 2031]
The screen flickered.
[CLIP 1:]
The footage was grainy, shaky, and grayscale with a surveillance overlay in the corner.
A caped man moved through fog.
Tall, broad, no helmet – he cut through a crowd of enemies with terrifying grace. He didn't swing wildly. He didn't hesitate.
Every movement was deliberate.
Parry. Pivot. Thrust. Step. Riposte.
What incredible form…
Alina recognised a real swordsman when she saw it – he was definitely one.
He ducked beneath a blade, twisted behind his attacker, and ended it with a clean, upward slash. He moved like a man not trying to survive – but trying to end something.
The clip ended just as quickly as it began. Then, another one began.
[CLIP 2:]
A different angle. A higher camera. Nearly top-down.
Dozens of targets converged on a single point.
The same man – at least Alina thought because of the cape – stood at the epicenter. A body lay next to him.
His sword was buried in the earth. He was barely upright – held up by the hilt, or maybe something else.
He raised his head.
Just slightly.
Mouthed two words.
Alina didn't know what, but the result was instant. From the snow, metal erupted. Black, jagged, organic – like vines or spears – lashing out in perfect precision.
They wrapped around legs. Arms. Necks. Spines.
One figure was lifted off the ground, writhing before going still. Another was pulled back and split down the middle.
It was a massacre.
And at the center, the man still stood.
Just barely.
He took one step.
Kneeled.
Collapsed.
The screen went black.
[Video File complete. Replay?]
Was that real? I have to watch it again…
Alina hovered over the replay button–
BANG!
A sound from downstairs. The front door. She could hear it: boots hitting the floor and muffled chatter through the walls.
"Beta clear downstairs!"
"Lambda, with me! Upstairs!"
"Director wants this entire house sweeped!"
Not good.
But what could she do?
Hide? Where? They'd find her eventually.
Fight back? With what? A pencil? She wasn't John Wick.
Run? Where? They'd blocked off the only entrance–
Maybe not the only entrance. She looked to the window.
Oh no…
What other choice did she have? She cracked open the window. Nothing inside the property to cushion her fall. But beyond the fence? A dumpster.
This wouldn't be fun.
Come on, Alina. You're the girl. You got this.
She hesitated.
"Lieutenant, two rooms left!"
BANG!
"One room left!"
Now or never, Alina.
She jumped, barely clearing the fence, her shin scraping across the top, bleeding. She tumbled, very ungraciously, into the dumpster.
But there was no time to think about the pain. She had to run. When they opened the door, they'd see a window wide open. Surely they weren't that stupid.
She ran. And kept running. She didn't know how long, she didn't know how far. She just kept running until her legs gave out.
She collapsed near an alleyway.
"I– should really– work out– more." Alina gasped between shallow breaths.
She paused.
Patted her pockets.
The disappointing rustle of paper. Or failure. Maybe both.
…The USB.
It was still in the computer.