Charlie Hanabuchi

Professor Kamo mistook the fire drill for an invitation to speak. The conference hall had emptied in a wave of politely frantic motion—alarms blinking apologetically from the ceiling like electronic shame. Somewhere, a voice looped, "This is only a drill," in three languages. But Kamo, resplendent in his taupe tweed and facial expression of pre-emptive reverence, wandered toward the stage. Perhaps it was the quiet. Perhaps it was the spotlight, triggered by motion. Or perhaps — more precisely — it was his 'System 1', trained over decades to interpret confusion as an invitation to perform. He adjusted the mic, which was off. He cleared his throat, which wasn't. He began. "Ladies and gentlemen—no—entities, possibly non-binary intelligences, forgive me. We gather now at the precipice of post-causal uncertainty." Only the cleaning drone near the back acknowledged him with a polite whir. He continued. "You may ask: Where are we going? What is epistemolog...

The elevator lurched open on the twelfth floor of a crumbling residential block in west Tokyo, and Hatsuo Mizushima shuffled out, clutching a thin, battered briefcase like a lifeline. The stale hum of flickering fluorescent lights greeted him, accompanied by the faint smell of mildew and forgotten cigarettes—a scent that, somehow, now smelled like home. He paused in the dim corridor, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and flickering exit signs with a mixture of bitterness and fondness. "Still holding on," he muttered to himself, "just like me." His fingers traced the chipped brass numbers on the faded doorplate: 1208. The key turned stiffly in the lock, and the door creaked open to reveal his cramped sanctuary. The tiny apartment was a museum of lost grandeur—old campaign posters yellowed by time, shelves weighed down with dusty volumes on politics, strategy, and Japanese history, and a cluttered desk with a cracked laptop that probably hadn't updated in years. Mizush...

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...