Outside the window, the real world scrolled past in reverse: his childhood home shrinking, his dog running backward, an argument with his mother un-happening. The speed gauge climbed past 300 km/h. Then 500. Then a number that looked like a glitch.

And somewhere in the internet café, Maya watched the cracked screen. The download bar had vanished. In its place was a live video feed: Leo, gripping an invisible lever, sweat on his brow, his lips moving silently.

A voice, smooth as oil, came from the overhead speaker: "Please hold your tickets tightly. This bullet train makes no stops—except the ones you wish you could take back."

Behind him, all the other Leos had risen from their seats. They weren't smiling anymore. They were walking toward him, slowly, holding broken phone chargers like weapons.

But the game’s thumbnail was irresistible: a sleek, silver Shinkansen slicing through a neon rainstorm, its windows glowing like a row of fangs. The rating was 4.9 stars, but every five-star review said the same thing: "You will never want to leave the train."