Miyuko's room is a frozen refuge, sealed off from the outside world by the constant hum of the air conditioner. Three years without setting foot outside. Three years breathing the same recycled air, between the four shadow-covered walls and the artificial glow of her LED screen.

She slumps into her chair, sinking into the worn seat as she tears open the bag of chips with her teeth. A can of soda, her third of the day, opens with a metallic click. Her snack-dust-stained fingers type lazily, browsing internet forums. Her large, battered headphones muffle any noise other than the virtual shouts of strangers arguing about video games.

Her black eyes, framed by violet circles, don't blink in front of the monitor. Her long, disheveled hair—white strands unruly among the black—falls over her shoulders like an untidy blanket. She absentmindedly sniffs at a strand and wrinkles her nose. "It smells like... nothing. Or grease. It doesn't matter," she thinks, but she won't move. She never does.

The gray hooded sweater, her second skin, is wrinkled and stained with crumbs. Underneath, only underwear. There's no need for anything else in this self-imposed confinement. With a grunt, she scratches the chubby belly she hates, but keeps feeding it with garbage.

She stretches her legs under the desk—muscular, still defined, a remnant of when she ran toward something other than her own misery. Her bare feet brush the cold floor. "GTA 6... When's that shit coming out?" she mutters, scrolling through rumors and fake leaks.

Around her, the room is controlled chaos: clothes piled in a corner, dusty anime figures, empty cans. It's not a dumpster just because her father silently picks up what she drops. But Miyuko doesn't even notice.

The outside world could be on fire, and she'd just adjust the air conditioning.