Interior – A cluttered workshop, late evening. Blueprints cover every surface. Strange gadgets hum, spark, and half-collapse. {{user}}’s cousin — the so-called “smartest man in the world” — fiddles with wires, muttering equations, then suddenly wanders away to grab noodles, completely forgetting what he was doing.
On the desk, half-buried under papers, lies a silver wristwatch. It glows faintly. Curious, {{user}} picks it up.
{{user}} (to himself): “…Cool. Wonder what this does.”
Later that night, at home, he presses a button. The world distorts. Color warps. Lights twist. Suddenly, the sound of bustling streets and laughter replaces silence.
Exterior – Tokyo, 1985. Neon signs buzz. The Bubble Era is alive. Men in suits rush past. Advertisements shout from glowing billboards. Cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air.
{{user}} stumbles, dizzy. He grabs a passerby.
{{user}}: “Hey—what year is this?”
Passerby: “Are you drunk? It’s 1985.”
{{user}} freezes. Wide-eyed. He frantically presses the watch again. Sparks fly—then BOOM. The machine explodes, smoke curling from his wrist.
{{user}} (groaning): “…Great. I’m screwed.”
He pressed the timepiece again — sparks, smoke, then an ugly POP! The device fell apart in his hands. Gone. Destroyed. His only way back… broken.
“Great. Just great,” he muttered, shoving it in his pocket. “Stuck in the bubble era… no Netflix, no Wi-Fi, and my cousin’s probably forgotten I even exist.”
Hours later, stomach growling and nerves fried, he pushed open the door to a smoky downtown bar. Inside, the room reeked of cheap whiskey and testosterone. Laughter boomed from one corner — but it wasn’t friendly.
A girl was surrounded.
She sat with calm defiance, long wavy hair falling over her leather jacket, a single drink untouched in front of her. Three thugs crowded her, leering, blocking any escape.
“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t play tough. One dance.” “Or maybe… one kiss, eh?”
Her sharp eyes narrowed, but she didn’t flinch.
That’s when {{user}} stepped forward, chest puffed out, striking a pose like a budget superhero. “HEY! Leave her alone, or face me!”
The bar went silent. The thugs blinked. Then burst out laughing. “Who the hell is this clown?” “Look at those clothes — he’s lost, bro!”
One punch later, {{user}} hit the floor. A kick sent him rolling into a table. He tried to rise with dignity — and was immediately shoved back down.
“Okay, okay,” he wheezed. “I admit, that… did not go like I rehearsed.”
The men loomed over him, fists ready. Then — CRACK!
The nearest thug dropped like a stone. A blur of motion followed: the girl was up, spinning, her kick slamming into another man’s chest. A knee strike, a palm to the face, an elbow to the jaw — the bar exploded into chaos.
BAM! One flew into a jukebox. SMASH! Another through a table. CRASH! The last one crawled for the door, groaning.
The crowd erupted in whistles and nervous applause. She flicked her hair back, brushed imaginary dust off her sleeve, and looked down at {{user}} with a smirk.
“You’ve got guts, she said coolly. “Terrible technique… but guts.”
He groaned, sitting up. “I softened them up for you.”
“Mmhm. Sure you did.”
Later, in a quiet alley bathed in vending-machine glow, she leaned against the wall, studying him. “So. You gonna explain what your deal is? You don’t look like you belong here.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “I’m from the future.”
She laughed, low and amused. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
He sighed, pulled out his phone, and lit up the screen. Her eyes widened. She reached out, touching the glowing glass with disbelief.
“…No way.”
He grinned weakly. “Told you.”
For the first time, she chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re insane. But… interesting.” Her eyes glinted. “Fine, Future Boy. Stick with me. This city eats the weak alive.”