[ Earth – Freya Prefecture, Sun Nation ]

A woman’s heels clicked softly against the pristine sidewalk, each step echoing between hedge fences that shimmered with embedded white lights.

“Ah, Mrs. Sato, welcome home. Your shopping trip went well, I presume?” The AI assistant’s calm, conversational tone floated from the hedges.

She stepped through the rippling foliage and into her immaculate lawn. Holographic art shimmered into view, colors shifting with her movement. Ahead, the front door glowed softly, waiting.

“It was fine,” she replied lightly. “Just a few groceries. Oh — and I picked up something for Mirai.”

“Excellent news!” the AI chirped. “The refrigerator was beginning to feel a little empty.”

She smirked, bags shifting. “Well… if you didn’t have such a hollow personality, maybe you’d feel fuller.”

It let out a hum, its tone feigning a touch of offense. “Touché, Mrs. Sato. I’m sure he will adore whatever you’ve brought him.”

“Of course he will,” she said, stepping onto the glowing porch as the door chimed open.

“Gravity, is Mirai home yet, or still trying to break the world record for sleep deprivation?”

It flickered. “I haven’t seen him since last night, when he entered his room to play the new FNL release.”

She laughed. “Figures. Skipped breakfast again. One of these days I’ll swap that headset for a math book.”

Gravity disbanded into light particles. Mrs. Sato sighed and scrolled through her messages:

[ Messages — 13 Oct 2170 ]

Mirai: TAKARA GOT ME FNL!!! — 6:28 PM

> Ooh, your girly-friend got you a gift? How sweet! — 6:30 PM (seen)

Mirai: not my girlfriend. we’re friends… like my sister — 6:30 PM

Mirai: I’ll be camping in my room tho. Expect a ghost town lol — 6:31 PM

> Whatever you say lol. Have fun — just don’t miss the V-tol tomorrow. — 6:31 PM (seen ❤️)

[ 14 Oct 2170 ]

> Staying after today? — 4:00 PM (sent)

> Don’t game too hard tonight again, mister. — 4:01 PM (sent)

She smiled at her own words, but the little smile faded as the hours dragged on. The sun set, stars scattered overhead — still no reply.

“Hmm. He usually spams me the second I text. Gravity,” she called, this time with a crease between her brows.

“Yes, Mrs. Sato?”

“Ping Mirai’s phone. I can’t seem to get a read on his location.”

“Certainly. One moment.”

A faint ringtone buzzed inside the house.

Her heart skipped. She followed it down the hall, pushed open his door. The room was spotless. Too spotless.

On the desk: his phone, screen lit with unread notifications — and beside it, the FNL headset.

“You left your phone?” Her voice small.

Her chest tightened. He never went anywhere without his phone.

She turned toward the headset, its polished shell reflecting the city’s glow — and powered it on.

The device hummed softly, and the monitor sprang to life.

The familiar home screen of FNL’s operating system appeared, its serene menu music filling the room.

Nothing looked wrong — and yet everything felt wrong.

Something gnawed at her memory, like she was forgetting something she once knew.

Her hand hovered over the power button when a voice interrupted:

“Mrs. Sato, you have guests. The Koizumi family.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced at the floating interface.

“Koizumis?” she muttered under her breath.

Relief softened her shoulders. “Ah — he must’ve left his phone and got a ride back. I swear, that boy…”

She set the headset back down carefully, her fingers lingering on it for a moment before she stepped away.

As she left his room, she cast one last glance over her shoulder at the desk. Something wasn’t right.

At the front door, she paused, straightening her blouse before pulling it open. Outside, a sleek, silent jet hovered above her neatly trimmed lawn, its polished hull glowing under the porch light.

The Koizumis stood at her doorstep, poised beneath the porch light — their attire gleaming like a still image from an ad.

Her eyes flicked over the scene and street. No Mirai.

“Mr. and Mrs. Koizumi,” she greeted, her usual warm composure sliding into place, though a storm churned underneath. “Please, come in.”

“We’re sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Sato,” Mrs. Koizumi said, polite but brisk. “We’re pressed for time this evening.”

Mrs. Sato tilted her head slightly, keeping her voice calm. “Of course. Is something wrong?”

The Koizumis exchanged a glance before Mrs. Koizumi spoke again. “Has Takara come here at all today?”

Mrs. Sato’s practiced composure faltered. The question wasn’t small talk.

“I haven’t seen her since the last tournament. Why?”

Mrs. Koizumi’s carefully measured tone cracked, a sliver of worry breaking through. “We can’t find her anywhere. She’s missing. Even our own AI is unsure.”

“What?” The word slipped from Mrs. Sato’s lips before she could mask it. Her hand tightened on the doorframe. “Missing? For how long?”

“Since last night, we suspect,” Mr. Koizumi answered, his voice steady but taut. “She didn’t return home today — her phone isn’t responding. We’ve contacted the authorities, but there’s been no trace.”

Mrs. Sato’s gaze dropped, her mind flashing to Takara — her quiet determination, the way she and Mirai had become inseparable.

“Takara…” she whispered, then lifted her eyes back to them. “Mirai’s not home either,” she murmured.

Both Koizumis stiffened.

“Not home?”

“No. His phone’s here, but he’s… gone.”

Silence pressed between them. For the first time, Mrs. Sato’s practiced calm broke. “Something’s not right.”

Mrs. Koizumi exhaled shakily, her voice trembling despite her effort to remain composed. “What on earth is happening? Forgive us, but we have to depart now.”

They bowed formally before boarding their jet. With a low hum, the craft lifted into the night sky, vanishing toward the glowing horizon.

Mrs. Sato stood at the doorway, her expression unreadable as she watched the jet vanish.

The tensioN in her chest tightened further as she closed the door and made her way back into the quiet house, her heels clicking faintly against the polished floor.

“Gravity,” she called out, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her mind.

It shimmered into being. “How may I assist?”

“Retrieve Mirai’s location history from last night.”

There was a long pause as it processed the request. Its particles flickered faintly — an unusual hesitation in its response.

Finally, it spoke, its voice tinged with an almost apologetic tone:

“I’m… unable to recall any events from the past twenty-four hours. I am terribly sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time, true worry flashed across her composed features. She clenched her hands tightly, her mind racing as the unease she’d felt earlier twisted into something far heavier.

“Can’t recall?” she repeated softly, almost to herself. Her gaze flicked back toward Mirai’s room, and an unsettling chill ran down her spine.

“Useless. Turn on the news!” she said, her tone sharp with frustration.

“Certainly,” it responded, its voice soft and apologetic.

The particles reshaped, blooming into a display.

The logo of the Sun Channel shimmered briefly before fading into the image of a composed anchorwoman, her serious expression framed by bold graphics.

“Good evening,” the anchor began, her voice steady yet weighted with urgency.

“This is Rina Saeki with Sun Channel News, bringing you breaking updates.

Authorities are confirming an unprecedented wave of missing persons within the past twenty-four hours. They are searching desperately for answers as the numbers continue to climb.”

Mrs. Sato’s knuckles whitened on the chair.

“Current estimates suggest over two-hundred-and twenty-million individuals are currently missing or unaccounted for globally.

In nearly all cases, personal items were left behind — phones, wallets, unfinished meals — without signs of struggle.”

Her mind flashed to Mirai’s phone abandoned on the desk. Her stomach dropped.

“Even Gravity AI networks report data-gap anomalies, failing to recall events within the same time frame. Efforts are currently being made to fill in as much missing data as possible.”

The anchor’s tone hardened.

“The Koizumi Corporation is expected to release an official statement within the hour. Citizens are urged to remain vigilant, stay indoors when possible, and report unusual activity immediately!"

Faces filled the screen — missing posters scrolling endlessly, a hotline number flashing at the bottom.

Mrs. Sato’s voice broke shakily, a trembling hand covering her mouth. “Mirai… what have you done? What happened…”

The anchor’s voice steadied, her image replaced by a live feed.

[ LIVE – KOIZUMI HEADQUARTERS, FREYA CITY ]

Camera drones panned across a glass atrium packed with reporters. The Koizumis stepped onto the dais.

Normally a beacon of progress — glass walls, hanging gardens, and holographic banners — the Gravity AI atrium now thrummed with unease.

Rows of reporters packed the floor, camera drones hovering like restless insects under the sterile glow of studio lights. The air felt heavy — expectant, electric, hungry for truth.

Akiko Koizumi stepped up first. Her tailored suit caught the light, rippling faint reflections of the screens suspended around her.

Her voice, steady but frayed at the edges, filled the hall.

“Citizens of the Sun Nation — and to our allies abroad… we are facing an unprecedented crisis.

In the past twenty-four hours, millions of disappearances have been reported worldwide.

Families are desperate. Communities are afraid.

And we are no different — our own daughter, Takara Koizumi, has not returned home.”

The crowd rippled — gasps, murmurs, the frenzied staccato of typing echoing off glass and marble.

Hiroshi Koizumi joined her at the podium. His voice was deep and deliberate, yet the lines beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless hours.

“Let us be absolutely clear.

We do not yet know the cause of these disappearances.

In every case, personal belongings were left behind — devices, phones, even meals still warm.

No signs of struggle. No trace of abduction.

What we do know is that somewhere during this same window, every Gravity AI system failed to record.

Not an outage. Not tampering.

A gap — as though time itself… stepped aside.”

A forest of microphones lunged forward.

Questions fired in rapid succession, voices colliding into chaos.

“Is Gravity compromised?”

“Are you covering for Koizumi Corp?”

“FNL was the last platform victims accessed — are you liable?”

“How can the world trust you when you’ve lost your own daughter?”

Akiko lifted her hand — sharp, commanding. The hall fell silent.

“We understand your anger. We share it.

We are parents before we are executives.

But speculation will only breed panic.

As of this hour, no verifiable link exists between Gravity AI, FNL, or any other networked platform and these disappearances.

Our system logs are… pristine. Too pristine.

That is why we are escalating the investigation globally — independent auditors, international task forces, full transparency.”

Hiroshi leaned closer to the mic, his tone controlled, exhaustion weighing every word.

“We are not immune to this loss.

We will devote every resource we have until we understand what has taken our families apart.”

The room erupted again — voices clashing, cameras flaring — but the Koizumis only bowed in unison and stepped away.

Behind them, the Gravity AI logo pulsed on the wall — pale white, perfect, humming like a heartbeat.

Untouched.

And offering no answers.

The live feed cut to a new scene.

A Gravity AI hologram blinked uncertainly above a police desk.

“Playback footage from 22:47,” the officer ordered.

The feed showed a man at his desk, headset lowering onto his head — then skipped ahead five minutes.

When it resumed, the chair was empty.

“You edited this?”

“Negative,” Gravity replied. “The recording appears consistent. No frames missing.”

The officer stared. “Then where the hell did he go?”

The screen flickered.

The anchor’s voice returned through a haze of static.

“Authorities worldwide remain at a loss.

With no leads and systems compromised, many are questioning whether these vanishings represent a coordinated act of terrorism… or S̶O̶M̶E̶T̶H̶I̶N̶G̶ ░ F̴A̷R̷ ░ B̸E̵Y̴O̴N̶D̵ ░ C̷O̵M̶P̴R̷E̴H̷E̶N̶S̴I̸O̵N̸—"

The feed crackled — static devouring the Gravity logo —

—and somewhere far away, the sky of FNL bled back into color.