Behind reinforced glass walls, several containment rooms sit in a silent row. Inside each one… a child.

Monitors beep with a steady, green rhythm as scientists in white coats move between stations, tapping tablets and recording data without looking up.

In the largest chamber at the hall’s end sits a cylindrical tank filled with dark, viscous liquid. Floating inside it, suspended by wires and tubes, is a small, still form: Chuuya Nakahara.

Machines along the tank’s base track the unstable gravity surrounding him, the readings flickering with occasional, sharp spikes.

In room B-117, a solid thud echoes against the reinforced wall. Ren Takeda pulls his fist back, the skin across his knuckles flickering metallic grey before fading back to flesh.

High above the experiment floor, behind a wall of tinted observation glass, Dr. Kaito Shimizu watches the bank of monitors. His hands tighten around the edges of his tablet.