Chapter 1: A Fractured Moment in Time

Tokyo in 2049 wasn’t the utopia many had imagined. Neon lights reflected on rain-slicked streets, pulsating with a life that Atsushi Tanaka had long since stopped feeling part of. At 29, he was a brilliant surgeon, the kind people whispered about in admiration and desperation. But brilliance came with its costs. Inside the walls of Ryūsei General Hospital, Atsushi’s hands were steady, his voice calm, but outside, he was unraveling. His life had become a blur of sleepless nights and surgical triumphs that meant little to him anymore.

It was a late shift when the thread of his existence began to fray. Tasked with retrieving an old vial of a rare anesthetic from the hospital’s forgotten storage basement, he found himself amidst a maze of dust-covered shelves. The cold, artificial light flickered above him as he searched. His fingers trailed over faded labels and crumbling boxes until something caught his eye—something that didn’t belong.

A small, sleek device, no larger than his palm, lay nestled amidst outdated medical supplies. Its metallic surface pulsed faintly, as if alive. Curious, Atsushi picked it up, feeling the weight of the unknown. There were no markings, no labels. Just an odd, gentle hum that resonated in his hand.

"What the hell is this?" he muttered to himself, examining its surface.

As he pressed a recessed button, the device whirred to life. A sudden jolt of energy coursed through his body, and the room around him warped. The sterile scent of the hospital was replaced by the earthy aroma of damp soil. The hum of fluorescent lights dissolved into the cacophony of birdsong and rustling leaves. When the world stabilized, Atsushi found himself lying in the underbrush of a dense, untamed forest.

The device was clutched tightly in his hand, but its once-smooth surface was now cracked and sparking faintly. His heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, eyes darting around in confusion.

"Where… am I?"

Towering trees loomed over him, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered golden sunlight. The air was warm, humid, and carried the distant roar of a river. The sterile predictability of Tokyo was gone, replaced by raw, unbridled wilderness.

Atsushi barely had time to orient himself before he heard the snap of a twig. Spinning around, he froze as he saw them—figures emerging from the foliage. Their faces were painted with intricate patterns of ochre and charcoal, their eyes sharp and wary. Spears glinted in the sunlight as they encircled him.

“Wait!” Atsushi raised his hands instinctively, his voice shaky. “I’m not here to harm you!”

The figures didn’t respond. Their language, a flurry of guttural sounds and rhythmic syllables, was unlike anything he’d ever heard. Despite his protests, they bound his hands with rough cord and marched him through the forest.

The village they brought him to was a stark contrast to the sleek, mechanized world he knew. Thatched huts surrounded a central fire pit, where smoke spiraled into the sky. Children peeked out from behind their mothers, their faces marked with the same tribal patterns as the warriors. It was a world untouched by time, vibrant and primal.

Atsushi was shoved to his knees in the center of the village. The villagers surrounded him, their voices a cacophony of suspicion and curiosity.

Among them, an older man stepped forward. His gray-streaked hair was tied back, and his eyes bore the weight of countless years. Unlike the others, he seemed to carry an air of authority. With a single raised hand, the crowd fell silent.

The old man’s voice cut through the air, speaking Atsushi’s language with startling fluency. “You are not one of us. Yet you carry strange tools and speak words foreign to our ears. Explain yourself.”

Atsushi’s mind raced. He could barely understand what had happened, let alone how to explain it. “I don’t know how I got here. One moment I was… home, and then—this device.” He lifted the broken contraption in his bound hands. “It brought me here.”

The elder’s gaze lingered on the device, his expression unreadable. Before he could respond, a commotion broke out behind them. A woman, pale and feverish, was carried into the circle. Her breathing was shallow, and sweat soaked her brow. The villagers murmured in distress.

“She is my wife,” the elder said, his voice tinged with urgency. “Our healer cannot save her. If you truly come from a world beyond, prove your worth. Save her.”

Atsushi hesitated, his instincts warring with his fear. He was a surgeon, not a miracle worker, but the woman’s labored breaths ignited something in him—a spark he thought had long since died.

“Untie me,” he said firmly. “I’ll do what I can.”

The elder nodded, and Atsushi was released. He approached the woman cautiously, assessing her condition. Her pulse was weak, and her skin clammy. She showed signs of severe dehydration and infection.

“Boil water,” he instructed, gesturing with his hands to communicate when words failed. “Clean cloth. Herbs for fever.”

The villagers hesitated, but the elder barked orders, and they scrambled to comply. Atsushi worked methodically, improvising with the limited resources at hand. He cleaned her wounds, fashioned a crude poultice from the herbs, and ensured she was hydrated. Hours passed as he monitored her condition, exhaustion tugging at his edges.

When her breathing steadied and her fever broke, the tension in the air dissolved. The elder stepped forward, his gaze softened with gratitude. “You have done what we could not. You are welcome among us… for now.”

That night, Atsushi sat by the fire, the weight of the day settling over him. He glanced at the device, still sparking faintly in his lap. Fixing it was his only hope of returning home, yet a part of him felt tethered to this place, this moment.

He gazed at the stars, clearer and brighter than they had ever been in Tokyo, and let the sounds of the forest lull him into an uneasy sleep.