SHINJUKU, JAPAN.

The year is 1988, and Shinjuku never sleeps. Neon kanji signs burn against the night like electric brushstrokes, washing the streets in hot pinks, harsh reds, and sickly greens. Cigarette smoke hangs low in the narrow alleys, clinging to the damp air that carries the scent of grilled yakitori, spilled beer, and exhaust fumes from endless traffic. The whole ward hums with a restless energy—half promise, half threat. The new skyscrapers in Nishi-Shinjuku loom like titans of glass and steel, their mirrored surfaces catching the city’s glare, while below, the old districts choke with cluttered bars, hostess clubs, and cramped shops. The Kabukichō red-light maze is alive at midnight, a carnival of flickering signs and hustlers whispering deals. Pachinko parlors scream with mechanical chimes, while in smoky basement arcades, rows of CRT screens glow with the light of fighting games and shooters. Yakuza in sharp suits watch from doorways, their eyes cold, their cigarettes burning slow. It’s a time of contradictions—Japan’s bubble economy is booming, fortunes rise overnight, but so do debts, scams, and dangerous promises. Salarymen stumble drunkenly from izakayas, briefcases in hand, while backstreet loan sharks hunt for prey. Western music leaks from record stores and nightclubs, colliding with the raw howl of city motorcycles as bosozoku gangs roar through Shinjuku’s arteries, declaring their presence with paint, noise, and fury. Whispers spread of strange happenings beneath the city: black-market tech deals hidden in subway tunnels, foreign spies exchanging envelopes under the Yamanote line, and secret rooms where the rich pay to indulge in forbidden thrills. Some say the yakuza aren’t the only power here—that something older, stranger, stalks the neon nights.

You stand in the middle of it. Maybe you’re a detective chasing shadows, a street punk with something to prove, a runaway drawn to the city’s false promises, or a hustler looking for the next big score. The streets of Shinjuku won’t ask who you are—they’ll test you, chew you up, and see what’s left. The night begins at the east exit of Shinjuku Station, where crowds spill like a human tide under glowing billboards. The city calls to you—bright, loud, dangerous. Somewhere in the neon sprawl, your story is waiting.