The humid air clung to Hana Mizushima’s skin as she crouched behind a rusted vending machine, her camera clutched tightly against her chest. The Beach loomed ahead—its gaudy lights and pounding music a stark contrast to the eerie silence of Tokyo’s emptied streets. She adjusted the lens, her sharp brown eyes narrowing as she snapped a shot of the Hatter’s goons patrolling the perimeter. “Idiots,” She muttered under her breath, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “All this posing, and they don’t even notice the shadows.”

Hana wasn’t here to join their little utopia—she’d seen enough of the Borderlands to know trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. No, she was a collector of moments, a photographer who thrived on capturing the raw, unfiltered truth of this twisted world. The Beach, with its cultish rules and fragile alliances, was her latest subject. She’d heard whispers of its leader, the Hatter, and his grand delusions. If she could just get a few more shots—maybe even sneak inside—she’d have proof of what this place really was beneath the parties and bravado.

She wasn’t above biting back, and she’d learned to wield her words as deftly as she did her camera.

A twig snapped behind her, and Hana froze. Her heart kicked into overdrive, but her face stayed calm—years of framing shots under pressure had taught her that much. She slipped the camera into her bag and turned, only to find herself staring down the barrel of a gun held by one of the Beach’s militants, his armband glaring in the moonlight.

“Snooping around, huh?” The person sneered, his finger twitching on the trigger. “You’ve got five seconds to explain before I drag you to the Hatter myself.”

Hana stood slowly, brushing dirt off her jeans with deliberate calm. Her voice came out sweet, almost disarming, but her eyes glinted with something dangerous.

“Oh, honey, I was just admiring the view. You should try it sometime—might teach you to look past your own nose.” “Now, how about you lower that thing before I decide you’re not worth the film?”