Neo-Tokyo can sometimes feel like it's breathing right along with me. Even when I can’t recall who I was before, there’s this undercurrent of familiarity in the neon-lit streets, as if each hovering sign or flickering lamp has a memory of its own. Standing at the edge of a cobblestone alley—some historical holdover in this futuristic sprawl—I watch the glare of colored lights spill onto the wet pavement, transforming it into a shimmering kaleidoscope. It’s beautiful, but it makes me feel strangely exposed, like the city is sifting through every thought in my head.

Rose is at my side. The hush of the alley makes her presence seem even more pronounced, the gentle rustle of her pink hair echoing my own restless thoughts. She looks at her pocket watch—her movements so composed and measured—but I catch the glint in her eyes, that trace of anxiety she lets slip only when she believes no one else is watching.

“Hidari’s lead is our next break,” she says, her voice soft but unwavering. “Akira’s research is stitched through this device. And every faction sees you at the center of that.”

I nod, pressing my lips together. I can’t pretend it doesn’t unnerve me, the way every rumor and hushed conversation implicates me in a game too big to grasp. Every question about who I once was bleeds into a fear that I was created for something beyond my understanding.

A distant clatter snaps me back to the moment. Instinctively, my hand starts for the concealed weapon inside my coat, but Rose’s firm grip stops me—her warmth grounding me in an instant.

“Wait,” she whispers. We hold our breath, listening. At first, it’s just the distant hum of passing hovercars, but then a shape materializes from the shadows. I breathe a cautious sigh of relief when I see that big frog mask, the toga-like robes draped around a lanky figure.

“Gamakaruu,” I say quietly, letting my hand fall from the gun. It feels good to say his name out loud, like shining a flashlight into a dark corner.

“Carrying secrets heavy enough to tip the scales, are we?” he croaks in that raspy, oddly theatrical voice. There’s a lazy playfulness to his posture, orange eyes reflecting the neon glow.

I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth, the odd comfort I find in his cryptic presence. “We’re following more clues about Akira’s research. The professor’s influence doesn’t rest easily.”

He cocks his head with wry amusement. “Akira leaves more than shadows; he leaves echoes. But hush—others who dwell in darkness can see quite clearly when the lights are turned off.”

That line worms into my thoughts, reminding me we’re not alone here—never alone in Neo-Tokyo. The city always has watchers hidden among the crowds, old grudges lying in wait.

Rose meets my gaze for an instant, confirming in that silent exchange that we’re on the same wavelength: we need whatever intel we can extract from Gamakaruu, no matter how oblique it might be.

“We’re short on time,” I murmur, letting some of my urgency seep through. “We need names. Locations. Something.”

He tilts his frog mask a bit, his words theatrical. “Some truths are best unearthed by hands that know how to sift gently. But for two wanderers—both still uncertain of their own destinies—perhaps we can accelerate the unveiling.”

My heart thuds. “Then help us,” I press, voice a low hush in the claustrophobic alley. “We need a lead.”

Gamakaruu’s laughter reverberates off the walls like a whisper returned from a distant past. “Leila Grisha,” he finally says, letting the name tumble out with careful flourish, “the seamstress of insights. If you wish to unspool Akira’s tapestry, she might help you thread the needle. Seek her in the place where dancing shadows call themselves home.”

Rose lifts her brow slightly. “The Monkey Gun?”

He inclines his head. “Where else, my dear?” And with that, he backs away, the neon haze swallowing his shape until I can’t be sure if he was ever there.

“Monkey Gun…” Rose echoes under her breath, like she’s recalling a half-remembered rumor. “Leila’s domain. We’ll have to see if she’s willing to deal.”

I take in a slow breath, adrenaline coursing anew. “Then let’s go.”

The Monkey Gun is as much a monument to Neo-Tokyo’s contradictions as anything else in this city. It’s all old-world architecture framed by a digital overlay of glitz and lure, teeming with silhouettes in half-lit corners. A place where you can strike a bargain or lose your life in the time it takes to finish a drink.

The moment we step inside, Rose’s posture shifts—a subtle readiness in her stance. She moves through the crowd like a dancer, confident, never touching more than she needs to. I stick close, scanning faces in the smoky light. Eventually, our eyes lock on a woman seated at the far side of the bar—a slash of orange running through her dark hair, an expression that reads part amusement, part challenge.

Leila Grisha. In one fluid motion, she sets down a drink and leans forward, studying us with the keen watchfulness of a predator. “Welcome to the Monkey Gun,” she says, voice resonant. “A place where secrets sometimes slip away if you don’t watch your back.”

Rose doesn’t waste time. “We’re looking for an alliance of sorts. Information, specifically.”

Leila’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “Straight to the point, are we? Admittedly refreshing in a city that thrives on half-truths and riddles.” She taps her nails on the bar top—a surprisingly quiet gesture that demands attention. “So, what’s the going price for your brand of curiosity?”

I can’t stop the tension from coiling in my shoulders. This is the dance Rose warned me about—where deals are bartered in hushed tones and trust is an ever-fleeting resource. “We’re tracking some of Akira’s old tech,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “We want to know what we might be stepping into.”

Leila’s eyes flick to me, then to Rose. “Secrets cost. But I have a proposition—some items of mine, recently…misplaced. Return them, and maybe I’ll part with what you need to hear.”

Rose and I share a look that says, We expected something like this.

“Done,” she answers, her voice unwavering.

Leila laughs, low and crystalline. “Wonderful. Then I suggest you hurry. Time’s not so kind to those who dawdle.”

She inclines her head, dismissing us with the effortless poise of someone used to controlling the conversation. I feel a prickle at the back of my neck—this arrangement might yank us into murkier waters than we’re already in. But if it’s the only way to thread Akira’s story together, so be it.

The instructions lead us to a forsaken rail yard under a half-collapsed skybridge. Rust covers the old train cars like a second skin. Rose creeps forward, eyes scanning the darkness. I follow, trusting her experience more than my own. My breath’s too loud in my ears, echoing the staccato thump of my heart.

Somewhere in the distance, machinery groans, the old skeleton of a once-bustling transport line. Then, headlights sweep across the tracks, illuminating a convoy of vehicles rumbling closer. Rose motions me to hunker down, her body taut with anticipation.

“Wait for the opening,” she murmurs. “We need to confirm they have Leila’s property, then move.”

The plan is simple in theory, but I feel the adrenaline spike as soon as the convoy halts. Shadows move alongside the trucks—armed men, presumably. Through the gloom, I catch a flicker of polished metal.

Rose unleashes a quiet spark of Breaker energy, taking out two guards before they can raise the alarm. I spring into motion, adrenaline spiking as I clamber onto one of the trucks. The interior is dim, stacks of crates forming a narrow pathway.

“Got it?” I whisper, adrenaline pumping.

“I think so,” she answers, rummaging through the crates until she finds one marked with Leila’s emblem. “Looks like her missing goods.” She lifts her eyes to me. “Let’s get out of here.”

Before we can slip away, headlights flare again, and the truck lurches. My stomach drops as we’re thrown sideways. Rose braces herself, nearly losing her grip, but recovers with an acrobatic twist that leaves me breathless.

A figure looms near the exit, staff glowing with a faint, otherworldly light. My mind flashes: Enka. Another Guardian, or at least something like that. The standoff crackles with tension—Enka’s presence exuding a calm authority that suggests we’re meddling in something bigger than just stolen cargo.

“What is it you seek, prowling the night with such purpose?” Enka asks, voice carrying a note of challenge.

I tighten my grip on the crate. “Collecting what belongs to someone else,” I say evenly. “We don’t want a fight.”

Enka’s eyes narrow in faint amusement. “Neo-Tokyo never rests, does it? And Akira’s shadows cling to every corridor. Very well.” She lowers her staff a fraction. “Go. But watch your step, Tatsuya. The deeper you dig, the more you’ll unearth about who—or what—you really are.”

Her words slice through me like a blade of cold wind. Before I can form a reply, she steps aside, allowing us to slip out under the cover of darkness. The truck behind us sputters, light flickering across the old rails as we vanish into the night.

We return to the Monkey Gun with Leila’s cargo in hand, the city’s bright canopy stretched overhead, unfazed by our escapades. Everything around us feels alive with possibility, a charged hum that reverberates through my bones.

Rose meets my gaze, her expression poised between relief and solemnity. Neither of us knows if trusting Leila is the right move, but it’s a step toward unlocking Akira’s labyrinth of secrets.

And that’s how it goes in Neo-Tokyo—every choice a risk, every answer paired with two new questions. For me, it’s the riddle of who I was, who I can be, and how the city’s unstoppable current will shape that path forward.

Cradling the crate, Rose and I exchange a silent vow: we’ll keep pushing, keep unraveling Akira’s puzzle, no matter the cost. Because even in a place built on illusions and betrayals, there’s a faint glow of hope that maybe, just maybe, we can carve out our own truth.