HIRO

The city pulsed beneath a thick haze of neon and midnight. Somewhere in its maze of alleys and skyline shadows, tucked between ramen joints and forgotten arcades, sat a narrow building with a red-lit sign that simply read: H.I.R.Ø. Inside, the HIRO Bar thrummed low. Jazz spilled from dusty speakers. The scent of oil, ozone, and espresso lingered in the air. Vinyl cracked on the deck. Horn speakers glowed warm. A mirror behind the bar caught the soft flicker of fluorescent garage light leaking from behind the soundproof door. Hayato Braun leaned over the hood of a Porsche 930, sleeves rolled, hands marked with grease. He was quiet—focused. His mind wasn’t on the machine, though. Not really. His mind was on Maya, or the memory of her, or maybe just the ghost. He didn’t know anymore. Across the garage, Ian Sidell stood half in shadow, punching a few commands into a glassy tablet. The servers in the back whirred like they were nervous. “You ready for this?” Ian asked without looking up. Hayato didn’t answer right away. He clicked the hood shut, wiped his hands on a rag, then finally spoke. “Does it matter?” Ian looked up then. His expression unreadable but soft around the edges. “It always matters.” Between them, projected against the far wall like a cathedral window, stood OMNA—her holographic form still and glowing. An ambient avatar of light and lines. Eyes closed. Listening. “She’s running the final sim diagnostics,” Ian added, gesturing toward OMNA.

“This next test run—we’ll be going deeper than before.” Hayato scoffed under his breath. “Didn’t think there was anywhere left to go.” A buzz echoed through the hallway behind them. The speakeasy entrance creaked open. Ren Sato stepped in first, holding her helmet in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Behind her came Orion, quiet as always, eyes scanning the floor like he was reading code no one else could see. The four of them stood there for a moment—like they had a dozen times before. But something in the air said this one was different. Ian shut his tablet. OMNA’s eyes opened, casting the room in pale blue. “You should go,” she said. Outside, the city buzzed around them like static. The alley glistened with puddles. Vapor curled from nearby vents. The four walked side-by-side into the fog, boots clicking on asphalt, neon wrapping around them in tendrils. Parked at the curb were their machines: A Porsche 930, a Skyline R34, a Supra, and a Mazda RX7. Idling. Waiting. Hayato reached for the door handle of his car, pausing just a moment to take it in. The familiar rumble. The sharp scent of rubber and rain. The road ahead was both real and unreal. The sim would blur that line even further. “You know,” Ian said behind him, “this all started with a dream.” Hayato slid into the driver’s seat. “Let’s just hope we don’t wake up screaming.” Engines flared.

Headlights snapped on. The night cracked open—and they drove into it.