Tatsuya Hanabuchi

Keiko Arai sat cross-legged on the tatami floor of her cramped 1DK apartment in Kōenji, staring at the last cup of instant miso soup she could afford until the end of the month. Her phone battery was blinking red, but she let the screen glow a little longer. Another job rejection. Another unread invoice reminder. Another morning where she couldn't quite remember when she last cried — or laughed. She sighed, long and soundless. On her phone, a notification fluttered in. > [AD]: Struggling with money? Let us help. > Welcome to The Garden. > Grow your future. Lease your past. She almost deleted it out of habit. But then noticed the sender — not a sketchy gmail or unknown number, but a verified blue check beside the name: "Senshin Mutual Finance, Ltd." One of the new AI-run microloan companies that had quietly taken over half the rent contracts in the city. She clicked through. A video played: people walking calmly through an airy greenhouse, the soundtrack soft and ...

In a near-future Japan, a new civic scoring system called Jitsuryoku (true capability) governs access to housing, healthcare, and jobs. Unlike other countries' relatively more human-friendly social credit models, Jitsuryoku is not just about behavior or loyalty, but about “pragmatic usefulness.” Citizens must submit proof of productive activity weekly: measurable “real-world output” like hours worked, reports filed, children raised, meals prepared, etc... The alert came at 06:04, the moment Hayato Ninomiya’s worn-out tablet synced with the civic grid. A single red dot pulsed in the upper right corner. “JJitsuryoku Deviation Notice: Week 3 – Status: Marginally Redundant.” The rest of the screen dimmed, like the system was quietly ashamed of him. Hayato blinked the message away and rubbed his temples. Another sleepless night. Another cup of tea reheated twice. He reached for the kettle again before noticing the water sensor was blinking yellow — low balance in his utilities micro-bud...

Ken-ichi sat on the edge of his futon, still dressed in his work clothes. The tie hung loosely around his neck, his white shirt creased and faintly yellowing at the collar. Outside, the Tokyo skyline glowed with cold efficiency—white signage, muted blues, soft LED advertisements shimmering across glass towers like ghostly fish beneath the surface of a dark river. He opened a microwaved bento. The rice was dry, the karaage cold and rubbery. He chewed without tasting. The television played a late-night news loop: declining birthrate, AI job displacement, another Cabinet reshuffle. Ken-ichi muted it. The silence of his one-room apartment pressed down on him like a weight. He reached for his tablet. There were dozens of wellness apps bookmarked, most of them unopened. "Digital Mindfulness," "Zen Focus Planner," "Vespertillio Deus 19," "NeoSleep." He scrolled without aim until something unfamiliar appeared in the corner of the screen — a shimmering pi...