The neon lights of Shibuya didn’t glow; they screamed. Rindo stared at his phone, the screen flickering with a distorted version of the Scramble Crossing. He wasn't supposed to be here. One minute he was scrolling through a sketchy forum thread titled and the next, the air had tasted like ozone and static.

As a group of Reapers in red hoodies closed in, Rindo gripped his phone. The 99% finally ticked over. A pin icon flashed on his screen—the .

"Fret, tell me you see the timer," Rindo muttered, his fingers hovering over a digital countdown burned into the skin of his palm.

"Guess there’s no such thing as a free lunch," Rindo sighed, sparks of psych-energy beginning to swirl around his hand. "Fret, get ready. We’re playing for our lives."