Tokyo, Japan Time Unknown
Rain pelted the streets of Shibuya, transforming neon reflections into kaleidoscopic puddles beneath hurried footsteps. Kazuki Mizushima clutched his umbrella tighter as he navigated through the evening crowd, his lab coat hidden beneath a dark overcoat. The medical university's research building loomed behind him, its windows still illuminated despite the late hour.
"Mizushima-sensei!"
Kazuki turned at the familiar voice. A colleague—whose name flickered just beyond his mental grasp—approached, sheltering beneath the awning of a convenience store.
"You left early. Is everything all right?" the colleague asked, features somehow blurred in Kazuki's recollection.
"Just tired," Kazuki heard himself reply. "The research is taking longer than expected."
The colleague's expression shifted to concern. "Everyone's worried. You haven't been yourself lately."
Haven't been myself. The phrase echoed strangely.
"I'm fine," Kazuki insisted, though even in memory, the lie tasted bitter. "Just need sleep."
"The department head wants to see your progress report tomorrow. Don't forget."
Kazuki nodded, turning back toward the station. As he walked, Tokyo's familiar landscape began to warp, buildings stretching impossibly tall, pedestrians' faces blurring into featureless masks. The dissonance of memory failing him.
He remembered the train platform, standing at the yellow line. He remembered the crush of commuters, the announcement of the approaching train.
Then his recollection fragmented. A flash of blue light. A sensation of falling. Pain.
_Why can't I remember?_ The thought clawed through the dreamlike memory. _What was I researching? Where was my apartment? Did I have family? Friends?_
These central pieces of himself—the foundation of identity—were missing, like photographs cut from an album, leaving only empty spaces and frayed edges.
He remembered technical knowledge with perfect clarity: his medical training, scientific principles, the structure of pharmaceuticals, surgical procedures. But personal connections? His own history? These were fractured, incomplete.
The train arrived in his memory, doors sliding open.
Did I step inside? Did someone push me? Why can't I remember what happened next?
The scene dissolved into darkness, and Kazuki was falling through an endless void, reaching desperately for fragments of himself that scattered like autumn leaves in a gale.
--
Pain dragged him back to consciousness. Not the abstract pain of memory, but the concrete agony of bruised ribs and a pounding skull. Kazuki groaned, the sound echoing against stone walls. Cold, damp air filled his lungs, carrying the musty scent of earth and rot.
His eyes cracked open, vision blurry and unstable. A stone ceiling came into focus, illuminated by dim, flickering light. Raising his head slightly provoked a wave of nausea, but he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings.
A cell. Medieval in its construction—rough stone walls spotted with lichen, iron bars forming one wall, a heavy wooden door reinforced with metal bands forming another. A narrow pallet beneath him, filled with straw that poked through thin fabric. A small, barred window set high in the wall permitted a thin shaft of daylight.
Where am I ?