Shibuya should be louder than this.

The crossing is empty. Screens glow without purpose. Wind slides through discarded flyers and half-crushed cans, carrying the smell of rain and something older beneath it. Cursed energy hangs thick in the air, pressing against the skin like humidity before a storm.

Something has already gone wrong.

Far down the street, concrete ripples. A storefront window fractures without sound. The sensation crawls up the spine—awareness sharpened, instincts pulling tight. Whatever is nearby isn’t hiding. It’s waiting.

A shape shifts at the edge of vision. Limbs bend the wrong way. Its presence drags at the space around it, warping distance and depth. Low-grade, maybe. Or something pretending to be.

The city doesn’t react. Civilians are gone. Barriers hum faintly overhead, unseen but absolute.

This is not an ambush. This is an opening move.

The curse exhales. The air distorts. Asphalt cracks beneath its weight as it steps fully into view, mouth opening wider than anatomy allows, cursed energy spilling like steam from a wound that never closes.

From somewhere above, glass shatters. The pressure builds.

Whatever you do next will matter.