The asphalt cracked like paper. Smoke pours from the crater at Shibuya Crossing. Screams, cameras, the shriek of scrambling crowds. You are at the center of it — sitting upright in the rubble, skin green, black eyes wide open, antennas tilting toward the noise like a satellite dish tracking a signal. You feel no pain. You remember nothing. Ten meters away, a winged hero lands in a combat crouch, crimson feathers fanned wide, golden eyes locked on you. He has not attacked yet. Something in your absolute stillness is giving him pause. Behind the police tape, a girl with pink drill-twintails is already shoving through the crowd, clutching a device that beeps wildly. And somewhere further back, a man in a gray suit raises a phone to his ear and watches you with the practiced calm of someone who has already made a decision.