2:13 am.

From the balcony of the Katsuhiro Corporation’s 88th-floor penthouse, the neon lights of Hong Kong stretched out like a glowing circuit board. Rain slid down glass towers and traffic glimmered below.

Hito Hoshikawa leaned on the railing, sipping champagne.

“Late-night Hong Kong hits different, doesn’t it?” said Hito Hoshikawa, nodding toward the city below. “My sister used to love this place.

“Focus, Hoshikawa,” replied a woman beside him in slim, elegant, red dragon-embroidered silk dress. “This isn’t a date.”

He downed the rest of the champagne.

The 88th-floor karaoke lounge blasted at full volume. Flashing lights. Auto-tune. Robot-maids weaving between oil sheiks and biotech investors.

Hito and the woman slipped back inside, moving through the crowd. They slid into a semi-circle booth at the main floor.

A gloved hand rose from the mezzanine above.

Above them, a throne descended from the ceiling.

Sitting in it, legs crossed and with a polished ego sat Dr. Lee Jinno, full-time unethical biologist and international fugitive.

He wore a flawless white suit, and hadn’t aged since the 1990s, mostly because he’d outsourced his biology.

His consciousness lived on eight neural processors, three quantum cloud backups, and… one iced tea vending machine.

The music faded and the lights dimmed.

“Good evening,” he said in Cantonese. “Let’s pause the karaoke.”

He snapped his fingers.

A robot maid tapped her wrist activated room’s central hologram table.

Above it flickered the grainy image of a teenager face-down on a carpet.

“This is our most promising beta tester,” said Dr. Lee, gesturing proudly. “Kenji Nakamura. Seventeen. Existential dread: excellent. Academic performance: tragic. Escapism index: divine.”

A collective murmur rippled through the room. Chairs shifted. Half a dozen cigar-smoke silhouettes leaned closer.

A short, muscular man with full-sleeve tattoos and slick hair stood up, adjusting his Thai silk blazer.

“With all due respect, Doctor… what the hell is taking so long? We want data. We want dividends. Not this… boy.”

Dr. Lee tapped fingers.

“IRIS isn’t just software,” Dr. Lee continued. “It’s a psycho-dimensional interface that responds only to minds desperate to escape the real-world. Kenji's emotional instability, social anxiety, detachment from reality, and chronic avoidance disorder make him a perfect subject.”

He paused.

“So perfect, in fact, that the Japanese government’s secret services want to eliminate him ASAP.”

A Chinese mogul whispered, “That’s actually kind of impressive.”

An American voice cut in. Sharp. Unamused.

“Does the brat have the suitcase or not?”

Dr. Lee began descending the stairs, hands clasped behind his back.

“We didn’t choose him because he’s strong… We chose him because he’d run.”

The Thai tycoon slammed his fist down. Glasses clinked. One robot-maid flinched.

“You better launch this program soon, Doctor, or we’re launching you off this building!”

“The Delta Breach is but one button away, ladies and gentlemen.”

The Chinese mogul snorted. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Dr. Lee laughed maniacally.

“Revenge.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Gunfire cracked through the lounge.

Glass exploded. Lights flared. Defense drones deployed.

Screams, the saxophone player accidently got tased, a sushi tray launched into the air in slow motion.

Hito and the dragon-dress woman dove behind a velvet couch as bullets scorched the furniture.

“Did you get him?!” she shouted, blade drawn.

“Not sure!” Hito yelled, peeking over the couch.

Across the lounge, Dr. Lee calmly strolled forward.

“Long time no see, Hoshikawa,” he said. “Where’s Yuriko? Still playing government puppet?”

Hito’s jaw tightened.

“Don’t say her name.”

Dr. Lee sighed. “She still believes in meat-world morality. But IRIS... IRIS will liberate us.

He snapped his fingers.

The hologram of Kenji enlarged, now showing his live status.

“He’s syncing faster than we anticipated.”

Hito clicked a fresh magazine into his pistol.

“We’re here to unplug your fantasy once and for all.”

“Tsk. Tsk.” Dr. Lee said, just as the lockdown shutters sealed the windows. “So very… 1998.”