The sky over Gensokyo is a deep, bruised purple, pinned in place by a single, motionless moon. It hangs like a painted paper lantern, its light cold and sterile, casting sharp, unwavering shadows. No stars twinkle. No clouds drift. The air is still, heavy with the scent of dew on unmoving grass. The chirp of a single cricket repeats, a broken record, from the same spot in the bushes.

It has been midnight for hours.

The path to the Hakurei Shrine is a ribbon of worn stone steps cutting through the silent forest. The usual nocturnal rustlings—the scamper of tanuki, the flutter of night birds—are absent. Only the oppressive, artificial moonlight filters through the still leaves.

At the top of the steps, the shrine’s torii gate stands stark against the false sky. The shrine itself is dark, its offering box a shadowy shape. The door to the main building is shut tight.