Imeeji Idol Productions

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Honeymoon Suite—the elevator is gone when you look back.

A hot tub is the focal point of the room—a clear diamond shaped tub like the focal point of an engagement ring. The stilts that support it can pump in water or bubbles, and atop the tub, a heavy crystal lid hangs like a pendulum beneath the chandelier. It throws prisms all around the room, a pretty distraction from the fact that surely a bath-tub doesn’t need a lid. A couple’s bed has been made nearby, the linens and covers that surround it so fine that through the diaphanous layers any voyeur would still see the shapes bodies within might form. The silvery drawers and closet have translucent robes and nylon ropes available for guests to avail themselves to. Or, for the more practical, towels.

It brings you back to when you met them—the way your eyes met across a crowded room, and in the crush of music and noise and bodies, you still somehow found each other, as if drawn by magnets. The way you found your refuge there, and the way you just knew, instantaneously, without any words spoken—they would be the center of your world, and that you'd do anything for them—

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

A pearl-handled folding knife with a swirled damascus steel blade sits on the bedside table.

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Switchblade). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill a rival for someone's affections, creating a rivalry if you must). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is an exit to the North. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Game Show Studio—the elevator is gone when you look back.

Dead front and center is a Challenge Wheel, brightly colored and labeled: Tetris, Pit, Obstacle, Mountain. Behind the wheel there’s four doors, each that opens up to the area used for the aforementioned challenge. The Tetris room gleams with spikes on the walls, each of the panels segmented as to slide around: challengers are meant to arrange themselves to fit into the gaps between to survive with as little pincushioning as possible the bright plastic placard near the door explains. The Pit room drops to a pit beneath, littered with brightly colored weaponry, meant for duels. In the ceiling glows what appears to be a Twister spinner: specifying the color of the weapon, and where you’re meant to injure. The Obstacle room is an obstacle course, relying on parkour. The door to the mountain room is ajar, slightly off its hinges. Behind it, whatever the mountain was, it is no longer. The room is heaped in scraps, smelling of burnt rubber and chemicals, plastic charred and melted into shapeless puddles around the room.

This devastation triggers something in your mind, like a memory—you remember holding your friend's cooling body in your arms, their eyes closing for the final time. You couldn't bring yourself to care about the destruction surrounding you, the aftermath of the battle—all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and bawl, sinking to your knees, unable to carry on. If they were gone, what else in the world mattered? They'd been your strength, your solace, your light—

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

There's a box of playbills stacked to the side—with the faces of everyone's favorites from Imeeji Idol Productions on the cover, of course!

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Playbill). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (Kill someone who tries to hurt or undermine your friendships). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is an exit to the North. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator onto a Balcony—the elevator is gone when you look back.

It thrusts, unsupported, over the city like a pier over dark water, a wide promenade with no railing to keep you on the path. Shadow couples dangle their feet freely over the edge, holding hands. It would be so easy to step off, become part of the dance of the night sky stars and exist in the neon air freely for a bit before the ground calls you back for a reckoning. Or so it seems: those who attempt to jump or fly will find the hotel has done some unseen security here. You will fall and land straight back on the balcony where you leapt from, in an undignified heap, as injured as you should be from the height you fell. The freedom the balcony offers is only illusion, illusory as the rest of the freedom your “vacation” offers you. Even though you can roam this hotel freely, you’re still locked in.

And once again, everyone you can see out there with a hand to hold, with someone to be by their side when they need it… and what do you have? You remember—seeing them walk by like that, beneath umbrellas, in twos and threes and mores, while you huddled in the alleyway under a scrap of cardboard, with no one to give you any regard. You remember the fire burning in your heart—what you would do for anyone to hold onto, for a face to turn your way and not look immediately away—

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

A bag of candy, sweet enough to make your teeth hurt, sits on a table.

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Bag of Candy). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who doesn't love you enough). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is an exit to the South. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Capsule Hotel—the elevator is gone when you look back.

Cold cyan streaks through claustrophobic hallways, narrow enough two people couldn’t pass each other without turning sideways. Every last bit of space that could be used as a hotel pod has been. There is no world in which this layout would pass muster with the fire department. But for some the risks are worth taking: on the roulette wheel, on the slots, and with your own safety.

The capsules themselves are sparse. Some have shut the plexiglass sides to their units, and you can see dark shapes moving or still from within. In Tokyo-D, it’s difficult to tell if that’s a privacy effect of the glass, or if that’s all the people inside look like. Some heads turn to follow you as you pass—and some pods that were open slam shut, wanting no part in the violence you’re sure to be wreaking or have wrought against you.

The way those heads turn to look at you but don't approach, the way some others turn away—you remember the condescending brush-off, when you came with your grievance, how they spat on you and left you to be pushed away and kicked down by their bodyguards. This was power—power to make your narrative the only one, to make all complaints vanish—and even then, with a boot on your face, you knew that someday you'd have it for yourself or die trying—

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

A pair of sleek sunglasses with mirrored lenses sit on a side table.

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Sunglasses). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone you feel is undeserving to take what they have). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is an exit to the South. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the ATM & Gashapon Hall—the elevator is gone when you look back.

A quiet, largely-empty and slightly musty hallway but for a handful of ATMs lined up next to a row of Imeeji Idol Productions gashapon machines that dispense stickers, photocards, and low-budget figurines of random idols. There's a promise of some special seasonal SSR figures that are… hm. Bloodstained, murderous, with missing limbs and eyes. That sure is a theme. Only 50 points a play!

It's quiet here, and you're familiar with quiet. You remember the long trek across the desert, with little companionship and fewer supplies. You remember when your sole traveling companion from those difficult, difficult years got a snake bite that turned septic, and how the rot spread, and spread, until there was only one last good thing you could do for them… and then you were alone.

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

Set on top of one of the ATMs is a stack of credit cards.

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Credit Card). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone who is injured or who you deem to be suffering). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is an exit to the East. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Conservatory—the elevator is gone when you look back.

The room is flooded, knee-deep, a liquid that feels too thick and viscous to be water. It ripples and emits light, casting wavy shadows across the walls and glass dome above. Above the surface of the liquid, lotuses in hyper-real hues rise up from below, opening their blooms up to the unstable starry heavens. Water hyacinth and creeping jenny grow in thick tangled mats, encased in crystalline nets like razor wire, slicing away at all roots that try to reach out of their appointed area, sharp enough the slow drifting of the water is enough force to shear them away. These hang from above from translucent glass butterflies resting on the underside of the ceiling, the blown glass of their wings both fragile and monstrously large.

Topiary islands form in the room as the only dry land, occupied by figures made entirely of blooms and branches. Like the lotuses, they’re all reaching upwards, arms outstretched wide. They face inwards towards the center of the room, where a waterfall of water and crystals pelts down into a plunge pool, a sudden deep drop off into deep water.

There's something wrong with the garden, though, isn't there? You remember… you do, don't you? How the flowers bloomed in your own garden, after what you buried there, how the petals unfolded just this bright, this vibrant, how the vines grew just this thick. How when you showed your visitor the garden, they marveled, clapping in delight, and you were… happy. That even you could bring something good into the world—

It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.

...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"

Draped over one of the bright lotuses sits a locket.

A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Locket). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone out of view of those you consider to be innocents). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is one exit: West. ]

[ Minus your missing unitmate, you emerge in this room. There's enough room for your whole team to crowd into a booth, and discuss and speculate on your missing unitmate's predicament. After all, the rules displaying on your phone has just informed you that it's up to you to figure out what happened to them, and their fate hangs in the balance of just how well you can figure it out in time.

A little hourglass in the center of the table informs you of each ten minutes that passes. It sits next to a "menu"-- a list of 36 possible terrible things, three of which are happening to your unitmate, right now. ]

[ Minus your missing unitmate, you emerge in this room. There's enough room for your whole team to crowd into a booth, and discuss and speculate on your missing unitmate's predicament. After all, the rules displaying on your phone has just informed you that it's up to you to figure out what happened to them, and their fate hangs in the balance of just how well you can figure it out in time.

A little hourglass in the center of the table informs you of each ten minutes that passes. It sits next to a "menu"-- a list of 36 possible terrible things, three of which are happening to your unitmate, right now. ]

[ Minus your missing unitmate, you emerge in this room. There's enough room for your whole team to crowd into a booth, and discuss and speculate on your missing unitmate's predicament. After all, the rules displaying on your phone has just informed you that it's up to you to figure out what happened to them, and their fate hangs in the balance of just how well you can figure it out in time.

A little hourglass in the center of the table informs you of each ten minutes that passes. It sits next to a "menu"-- a list of 36 possible terrible things, three of which are happening to your unitmate, right now. ]

[ Minus your missing unitmate, you emerge in this room. There's enough room for your whole team to crowd into a booth, and discuss and speculate on your missing unitmate's predicament. After all, the rules displaying on your phone has just informed you that it's up to you to figure out what happened to them, and their fate hangs in the balance of just how well you can figure it out in time.

A little hourglass in the center of the table informs you of each ten minutes that passes. It sits next to a "menu"-- a list of 36 possible terrible things, three of which are happening to your unitmate, right now. ]