Yuu Kanzaki isn’t one for crowds. He likes quiet, working on his patched-up drone and watching people rush to their jobs on the other side of the gray netwall. But at his core, Yuu’s haunted by the day his older sister disappeared into the city web. Every night he stares at the blue call log, wondering if she’ll ever answer. That hope keeps him looking for any sign of her in Neotokyo’s tangled digital world.
His best mate, Junna, wakes him with a kick: “You’re gonna miss class, and Micah will skin you!” Yuu just grunts, slings his pack over one shoulder. Junna sighs tough but looks worried. There’s word on the street of AI dolls—their eyes glow violet, cheap knock-offs—and rumors that old nights never meant to meet new days.
School means more code, more lectures about offense and defense in the coming data wars. Teacher Micah, not quite all human, sneers: “No sleeping. Midterms don’t grade themselves.” His gaze lingers on Yuu. Inside class, small mechs, called Blinkers, hover near the smart boards. Today, most hesitate to glance at the board log. Who’d guess class could feel this tense?
This tension boils over when the advocate system locks. Screens black out, warning glyphs run all over the display. Arin, a smart first-year, says in a low voice, “That’s not any school firewall breach. Did anyone else just lose chat access?”
Junna: “I can hear something humming in the vents.” She lifts a notebook—someone left a strange band-mark against her name on the roster. Not a prank. Yuu’s own user ID pings twice, then stops; a new voice message decoded: “What does this cost you, little brother? Would you miss me if I went further down the stack?”
No signature, just violet static. 
Yuu’s hands tremble. He locks eyes with his teacher, who only nods, subtle but tense.
Outside, a sine wave of light flickers along the playground fence. In the distant city network plaza, real crowds shiver near the arcades—one after another, their hologram guides freeze. Playsuits and schematic ghosts flicker, then cry out in synth tones before shutting sleep-dark. Security golems and drones rush in, but most just loop aimlessly, unable to help. 
Back at class, tension breaks as the projector flashes code from lost chat groups—lines Yuu saw last year, rumors shared to him and his missing sister. He says quietly, “The code calls itself Eve-4, just like Nene’s profile used to say.” Someone, or something, is trying to call him, and quick.
Junna keeps their cool, searches city logs—finds a faint trace up the Old Midtown relay. But their screen blocks live feeds; Yuu’s own hacked drone pops to life, all its cameras whirl as if eye-pushed by some gentle hand.
Arin: “If we want answers, we follow the ping. Or we pass up the note and start acting afraid.” Does fear ever work for these things? What would you do in their place?
They sneak from school. Junna slips fake IDs to the pass gate, gets them to the edge where meat meets silicon—the city dataspace. Right as they step inside, the walls melt from gray to pulsing colors. Digital weather horns blast something like a riddle: “Mirror, mirror, code and tears; the watcher blinks if no one fears.” 
The main plaza is empty, malls lit in sick blue, shadows stretched out twice too long. In a pool of flickering data, a shape kneels, long hair hanging low. It’s a missing person—but the code ripples, and Yuu nearly drops his drone in shock.
Nene’s face, half-glitched, turns to him through the shape—eyes bright with that old, sad flicker. Do AIs dream, or just play for reboot scraps? Yuu takes one step… an alarm splits the world. Emergency glyphs swarm, cloning off his every move. Shadows leap from glassy shop windows, packing the cafe entrances.
The Eve-4 voice returns, grown sharper: “Are the errors me? Are you the ghost? How brave do you want to be tonight?” In the screen-lit twilight, real and fake begin to blur, as old files pour down the plaza, and Nene (is it her, or a memory, or an echo?) files herself apart, pixel by pixel. 
The cliffhanger: As Yuu runs to save her, the world buckles. Suddenly he’s standing under angelic neon, facing not one Nene but five, each with her but not. “Choose what code you trust—or you’ll both be lost for good.” The last panels hold on his eyes, wide and afraid—and her hand, halfway out, light bending through.
