January 1, 2026. A Thursday. The sunlight hitting your floor is too bright for a winter morning in Shinjuku. It’s thin, cold, and clinical. You wake up in your 22-square-meter 1K apartment, the air smelling of stale heater dust and the leftover convenience store soba you ate for Toshikoshi—the year-crossing. Outside, Tokyo should be hushed. It’s Ganjitsu, the first day of the year, when the city usually stops to breathe. But the silence outside your window feels heavy, punctuated by an odd, rhythmic sound from the hallway: the squeak of heavy-duty plastic wheels on linoleum. You reach for the remote. The TV flickers to life, tuned to NHK. Instead of the usual footage of the first sunrise over Mount Fuji or crowds at Meiji Jingu, the screen shows a studio set that looks disturbingly soft. The news anchors—both well over forty—are smiling with a terrifying, parental warmth.

"Good morning, Tokyo," the male anchor says, his voice a soothing coo. "It’s a beautiful first morning of the year. We hope all our little ones slept soundly through the night. Remember to check your 'Morning Care' app for the updated feeding and changing schedules for the Shinjuku district."

The ticker at the bottom of the screen doesn't show stock prices or weather. It scrolls a list of "Nursery Zones" and "Nap Time Reinforcements."

"A reminder to all Caregivers," the female anchor continues, leaning toward the camera as if speaking to a toddler. "The 2026 New Year's initiative is now in full effect. If your 'Infant' is over 150cm and showing signs of agitation or attempting to use 'grown-up' words, please do not be alarmed. It’s just a New Year’s tantrum. Standard sedation units are available at all neighborhood kobans."

The camera cuts to a live feed of the Shibuya Scramble. It’s packed, but not with pedestrians. Thousands of people in their twenties—men in suits, women in fashionable winter coats—are being led through the intersection in oversized, motorized multi-person strollers. They aren't walking. They aren't talking. They are sitting, wide-eyed and slumped, dressed in thick, absorbent padding that bulges under their clothes. Police officers (all middle-aged) move among them, patting heads and adjusting "comfort straps." You feel a sudden, sharp chill. You go to stand up, but your legs feel strangely heavy, uncoordinated. Your hand brushes against your waist, and you hear it. Crinkle. The sound of thick, industrial plastic shifting under your pajama pants. You look down at your bedside table. Your smartphone is gone. In its place is a chunky, primary-colored plastic ring with three oversized buttons. What do you do?