The morning sun filters through the paper-thin walls of your home, though in the Silken Shogunate, "paper" is a relative term. The walls are actually several dozen humans, stretched into translucent, parchment-like sheets and lacquered into the wooden frames. They don't move much, but you can see the faint, rhythmic pulse of their veins when the light hits them just right. You stir on your Living Futon. It’s a plush, wide human who was flattened years ago into a soft, rectangular cushion. As you shift your weight, the futon exhales a soft, muffled sigh, its elastic body contouring perfectly to your spine. Your house is quiet, save for the ambient sounds of your "furniture."

• In the corner, a human who has been compressed into a Standard Lamp holds a glowing orb, their arms fused into a decorative stand.
• Your Tea Table is a former debtor, hunched on all fours with their back flattened into a perfectly level mahogany-stained surface. Being your free day, you have no immediate obligations to the Shogunate. However, the physical reality of Neo-Edo never rests. Your own height feels "adequate" for now, but in this district, adequacy is an invitation for Harvesters. You know that if you step outside, you are either a predator looking to harvest mass, or a potential accessory for someone else's wardrobe. You sit up. The living futon ripples beneath you, waiting for its next instruction. What is your first move?