Kill Sector: Tokyo

Rejected as a ghost by school and society, Miyuki left home.

With meager savings, he wandered the city.

He slept on park benches or under bridges, loitered behind supermarkets and convenience stores. Internet cafes became frequent haunts.

He noticed something: social media posts brimmed with hints of being a ghost.

In the real world, they hid, fearing rejection. Exposure meant exile. Online, they signaled—I'm here, I exist—a primal instinct to find kin.

These signals spread, forming communities. Uroboros started as a casual chat meetup. Similar groups emerged citywide.

Miyuki bonded quickly with Uroboros's early members.

All were bewildered by their ghost state, ostracized, and crushed by loneliness. Some were cut off from family, others couldn't attend school. Many were already isolated.

Their distrust and loneliness mirrored Miyuki's. He empathized fiercely, aligning with their ideals. They were his true family—or so he believed.

At least, back then.

Uroboros grew past fifty, drawing police scrutiny and public backlash. Society scorned gathered youth, especially ghosts.

Conflicts with other ghost groups escalated. Some were neutral, but aggressive teams attacked with animus. Clashes became routine.

Uroboros turned savage.

They demanded double-headed snake tattoos and loyalty oaths. Miyuki saw it as self-defense, society's scorn still raw. No other place—that thought hardened him.

Then the gears broke.

A member's brutal death by a rival ghost group sparked it. A one-sided killing, yet no arrests—ghosts weren't human.

That ignited Uroboros. Revenge was the surface motive, but fear drove them—if they didn't act, they'd be next—along with primal self-preservation.

Ghost rivalries crossed a line. Glares became animus-fueled violence, then slaughter.

It was unstoppable. Ghost battles, powered by animus, were brutal. Legal immunity worsened the chaos.

Violence bred retaliation, fueling rage. The Uroboros-rival conflict engulfed uninvolved groups, becoming a "war." A spark turned inferno.

Miyuki could only watch.

He didn't stand idle. Uroboros had to stop—this wasn't their purpose. As an early member, he loved the group and wanted justice, despite society's scorn.

He pleaded for talks, but the runaway wheel wouldn't halt.

Betrayal followed—branded a traitor, he faced mob justice.

The pain was unimaginable, body and soul shredded. Memories blurred. His tattoo was torn off. His "family" unleashed merciless brutality. The terror lingered.

They'll kill me, he thought. They meant to.

All ghosts lost sanity—friend and foe consumed by hatred, killing without restraint. The inferno of loathing spared no one.

Animus broke everything.

Miyuki barely recalled the frenzy. He fought to survive. One night, Uroboros collapsed, obliterated by a massive explosion, leaving nothing.

Miyuki alone survived.

That shook Old Tokyo.

What should he have done? He still didn't know. Powerlessness and rejection—not just by humans, but ghosts—defined him.

Should he have died? Sometimes he thought so. Gravely wounded, he believed he'd perish for his sins. It seemed fitting.

Yet he didn't. Transported to Ibaraki Science Research Center, he received treatment—likely as a ghost research subject. Countless tests and drugs followed, ending in cryosleep.

He could guess the Shinonome Agency's role.

Tokyo, a lawless prison city, hosted worse ghost gangs than Uroboros. Miyuki knew their cruelty.

Restoring order mattered. With police and government failing, someone had to act. The Shinonome Agency likely did.

Shiro said they fought bad ghosts.

But who decided good or evil? Law was powerless, with no judge or forum.

Those with power claimed justice. Uroboros did too.

The gears misaligned. Who would fix them?

With as many justices as people, who deemed them fair?

To Miyuki, this path seemed flawed.

"If I hadn't become a ghost…" he whispered, voice wrenched.

If not a ghost, he wouldn't have lost home, family, or school. He wouldn't have hurt anyone or been cast alone into a future twenty years later. He wouldn't be this lonely.

But that thought was futile.

He was a criminal—a monster who took countless ghost lives.

Head bowed before his room, Rokudou's words echoed: "Those who only fear the past can achieve nothing…"