Once the Dreamers step past the heavy black stage doors, they enter the Green Room, a narrow lounge space with soft carpet, muted lighting, and walls painted an anxious shade of beige. It’s dressed up to feel comforting, but it doesn’t quite land. The couches are too stiff. The coffee table is cluttered with cold cups of tea that were never touched. One of the vanity mirrors still glows, even though it reflects no one sitting in front of it.

From a distant and unseen speaker, you hear the faint sound of Ai’s voice - sometimes her music, sometimes snippets from her acting roles or interviews. Sometimes static drowns out her voice until the skipping of a scratched record sets it right. Sometimes, you think you might hear someone humming an unfamiliar song over the speaker, but as soon as you try to focus in on it.

A wardrobe door creaks open on its own. Sometimes a hairdryer clicks on for a few seconds and then dies with a sizzle. Other times - less often, but enough - Torments slip in through the cracks in the plaster or crawl out from beneath the vanity.

They’re never strong. Never numerous. Just enough to keep your heart rate up. Just enough to make you look over your shoulder whenever you even think of relaxing.

To move between sound stages, Dreamers must pass through the a tangled network of run-down service hallways and behind-the-scenes maintenance spaces. Unlike the bright, fabricated illusion of the sets, these spaces feel real… but whether that makes them any better is hard to say. The walls are smeared with old tape marks and peeling paint, tangled with wires that dangle from the ceiling like vines. Cracked linoleum tiles echo underfoot with every step. Flickering fluorescents buzz overhead, creating long shadows that jitter and stutter along the floor.

Every hallway hums with the sound of a metronome, always ticking. It should set a steady rhythm but the tempo changes at random - slow, then fast, then unbearably slow again - making it impossible to find your pace. Sometimes it sounds like it’s just behind you. Sometimes it sounds like it’s ticking inside your head.

Posters line the walls, torn and overlapping; idol concerts, magazine spreads, variety show appearances, PR campaigns. All starring Ai. Her smile is perfect. Her eyes are empty.

From those unseen speakers, Ai’s voice suddenly comes pouring out. It’s only a recording, an old interview from some years back, but it’s surprisingly loud and clear.


“...To be honest… there are still a lot of things about myself I don’t really get. But I think that’s true for most people, right? We all have this idea of who we want to be, and we try to act like that person. For me, I’ve always worked hard to-”

A screech of static interrupts her and when the recording resumes it sounds… different. Her voice is a little peppier, a little brighter and the words she’s saying don’t quite match what was coming out of her before.


"Hmm, I get what you mean! But for me, there’s really no difference at all between Ai the person and Ai the idol! ♪ Being an idol is who I am. When I’m singing, dancing, smiling for my fans—that’s when I feel the happiest. Truly! As long as I can keep making everyone smile and feel loved, that’s more than enough for me. I don’t really need anything else!"

The feed cuts to silence.

⧖ HAZARD ALERT: Thin, vertical panels of jagged glass jut out from the walls. Some are waist-height, others high enough to catch a face. They’re nearly invisible until light hits them just right, and they’re angled in ways that reflect Dreamers at distorted, exaggerated proportions. Catching on them causes shallow but painful cuts that are oddly resistant to healing magic.

That erratic metronome isn’t just unnerving - it’s affecting the flow of time. Some hallways speed up time, leaving Dreamers disoriented and physically exhausted while others slow it down to excruciating speeds. Time moves unevenly between party members, causing separation, confusion, or painful déjà vu.

Linger in the corridor for too long and a Dreamer will find themselves suddenly attacked from the shadows by a presence they can't quite perceive. While it can be pushed back with light and sound types of magic, trying to fight in the cramped corridors is difficult and dangerous. It will pursue its target until they manage to flee through one of the soundstage doors.

The door to this soundstage creaks open with a papery sigh, revealing a vast, echoing chamber. The ceiling stretches far beyond view, vanishing into a haze of fluttering envelopes that drift gently from above like snow. Towering stacks of mail - fan letters - form claustrophobic corridors and shifting walls. Some are neatly wrapped in pink ribbon, others yellowed with age or warped by damp. A few pulse faintly, glowing with warmth. Others hum low with static, as if replaying old confessions over and over again.

Here and there, the paper has taken over entirely, forming hills and valleys and, most upsettingly of all, entire human-like figures built from envelopes and scrawled devotion. Most sit silently. A few turn their heads just slightly when you pass.

The air smells like perfume samples, dried flowers, and old ink. Somewhere deeper in the stacks, you can hear the shhk of paper being endlessly shuffled - and occasionally, the tearing sound of a letter being violently ripped open.

With the click and whir of a tape recorder starting up, that old interview starts to play again.


“You know, I didn't used to read any fan letters at all. But there was a time I was getting tired of being an idol and I was planning to quit, so-”

Another screech of static cuts across her and the recording stutters for a moment before picking back up.

"Every time I get a fan letter, I read it so carefully - sometimes more than once! They’re like little treasures to me, filled with warmth and love. Just knowing someone took the time to write to me, to cheer me on… it makes my heart feel so big. Their words give me strength on tough days. So, thank you always! I’ll keep doing my best for you!"

The recording cuts there.

⧖ HAZARD ALERT: Some letter stacks aren’t stable. Disturb the wrong one and it collapses into a paper avalanche, threatening to crush any Dreamer unfortunate enough to be caught under it.

Once touched, certain letters become impossibly persistent, sticking to the Dreamer’s body, whispering incessantly. “You’re mine.” “You make me feel seen.” “Don’t ignore me.” They crumple when torn off but immediately reform and reattach themselves. Accumulating too many of these letters seems to draw the attention of the Torments… and of course it’s those creepy, papery guys.

Dreamers with fire or electricity magic need to be careful here. The letters are extremely flammable and all it takes is a spark to set the whole archive ablaze...

The door slams shut the moment you pass through it.

You’re standing in the doorway of a tiny, rotting house pressed up against the edge of nowhere - the windows look out onto a void that threatens to swallow even the dim light keeping the house illuminated. Inside, every surface is smeared in a faint, grimy film of dust and grease and the smell is a choking mix of mildew, old rice, and something faintly sweet that’s long since gone sour. The floorboards creak with every shift of your weight and the floor is strewn with uncooked rice, scattered as if from a dropped bowl… and only when your foot crunches do you realize that shards of broken glass are mixed in with the grains, invisible until it’s too late.

The living room waits just beyond: a battered old sofa, dusty furniture, and a flickering CRT TV playing an endless Tetris game on a loop. Nothing fits. Blocks fall too fast or too slow. Lines almost clear but don’t. Every so often, without warning, the screen ruptures - as if struck by an invisible force - and in that moment of brief illumination, you see them:

Black handprints. On the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Some dragged like someone was trying to claw their way out. Others look slapped on in anger. Then, just as quickly, the light dies down, and they’re gone again and the screen is back to normal.

… usually, anyway. If you happen to wait around for long enough, sometimes the static cuts back to a TV recording of that interview you’ve been hearing all over. The angle is slightly off - the top of Ai’s face is just out of frame so you can’t see her eyes, leaving just her slightly uncomfortable smile visible.


"Ah, well… It didn’t really feel like a typical parent-child relationship… more like we were partners, in a weird way. But I don’t blame her. People aren’t perfect, you know? Not everyone’s cut out to be a parent, and I don’t think she was trying to be. That’s just how it-"

KSSSHT. Static dominates the frame again and this time when it cuts back, the shot is alarmingly close. It almost feels like you’re face to face with her. And even though you’re only looking at her smile, something about it looks a little… cruel.


"Hehe, I actually get along really well with my mom! She’s super supportive and always cheering me on, even when things get tough. We talk a lot - sometimes about work, sometimes just silly little things - and I always feel better after. I think I really owe a lot to her. Love you, Mama!"

The Tetris game resumes.

If you understandably decide you want to get the heck out of here after that, further investigation will reveal that most of the doors in the apartment are sealed shut - not just locked, but apparently not even made to open in the first place. No amount of magic or force seems able to break through. But eventually, up a staircase that groans with each step, one door gives way.

It leads to a child’s bedroom... or what’s left of one. The moment the door opens, it’s clear this space doesn’t obey normal proportions. It’s like stepping into a memory that’s been compressed, shrunk, and folded in on itself too many times. Everything is too small, too close, too much.

The walls lean inward. There’s barely more than a foot of floor space between the edges of the bed, the low bookshelf, and the little desk pressed up against a single cracked window. The ceiling seems to droop, as if weighed down by time or silence. There’s a toy bunny on the bed. Its eyes are missing.

The atmosphere here is different than the rest of the house—denser, like the air is made of molasses and guilt. It’s not dangerous at first. Not obviously. But the longer you linger, the more the walls seem to pulse. Breathe. Close in.

And then something moves.

⧖ HAZARD ALERT: All through the house, spilled rice litters the floor with tiny shards of broken glass mixed in, almost invisible unless caught in just the right light. Moving too quickly or stepping without caution causes can cause painful cuts that, similar to the glass in the corridors, seems oddly resistant to healing magic.

It happens when you’ve been wandering the backstage corridors long enough that the shifting tempo of the metronome has drilled right into your head. You’re losing track of all the twists and turns you’ve taken and just when you feel like you’re about to panic, you find a door that seems like doesn’t belong here.It’s simple, wooden, warm to the touch and when you open it -

Light spills out.

The door leads to what seems to be the living room of a small, comfortable house. The couch is small but plush, the table cluttered gently with the comings and goings of day to day life. Photos of a happy family line the walls. There’s a half-poured cup of tea left on the counter. A soft humming in the air. It’s always the perfect time of day here, warm, golden, peaceful and outside the windows, the sky is a calm, endless blue. Everything feels just a little blurred at the edges, like a memory too good to be real. But it feels real. It feels… safe.

… It’s familiar, if you’ve been here before. You're standing in the living room of the Hoshino family home. Not the real one, of course, but close enough that it steals your breath.

This little room tucked away from the rest of the dream seems to be the true safe room. No Torments or Nightmares are able to breach it and just by being here, any wounds a Dreamer has accumulated will gradually start to heal. Panic fades. The ever-present anxiety that hums through the rest of this dream melts away like morning fog.

You can stay for as long as you need. The world outside will wait. But when you’re ready, you’ll find the door waiting for you again, leading back to the corridors and the rest of the dream.

The next door opens not with a creak, but with the thunderous clack of a stage light powering on. The air shifts. You’re no longer in a corridor - you’re on a perfectly circular soundstage, vast and dark, except for the searing white spotlight that crashes down at the center. And when you turn to retreat, you’ll see that the door has completely vanished. For the time being, you’re stuck here.

Everything outside the beam of light searing your eyes is pitch black. The floor gleams like lacquered vinyl, reflecting the stage light so brightly it feels like you're standing inside a void. There's no set. No props. No backing dancers. Just the emptiness and the sound of your own breathing, amplified and echoing around the room.

There are audience seats, but they vanish into darkness. You can’t see who’s watching. But you know someone is. When you speak, you hear faint clapping - or laughter. Or silence. Or a thousand overlapping voices, impossible to parse. Sometimes you swear you hear your own name.

You’re here to prove your worth, after all. You have to show you’re capable of performing. And if you stand too long without entertaining the Torments in the seats start to stir and you realize with a frightening jolt just how many of them there are.

The air smells like roses and sweat.

⧖ HAZARD ALERT: While trapped on the stage, all Dreamers must attempt a performance to satisfy the watching audience - a gigantic horde of Torments too numerous for any one Dreamer to handle. Stalling for too long will cause them to rush the stage and attack, but it's also unclear what exactly they want from you. Stumbling over your feet might get a round of applause but a perfectly executed monologue might see them turn on you to attack. The whims of the audience seem impossible to play to.

Glowing cue cards flicker in and out of existence at the edges of the stage, offering instructions - "Sing." "Smile." "Apologize." - but following them doesn’t guarantee safety. Sometimes they trigger applause and sometimes they trigger attacks. But of course, ignoring them altogether will stoke the audience into a frenzy.

At random intervals, blinding spotlights will pivot from the stage to target individual Dreamers, freezing them in place. In the glare, their shadows split off and move out of sync, pantomiming replays shameful or vulnerable moments for all to see. If a shadow is manifest for too long, it breaks free entirely and becomes an alarmingly powerful Torment, mimicking the Dreamer’s appearance and abilities with cruel precision.

The room is enormous, cavernous, suffocating. The air is cold and wrong. You're standing on the main floor of what seems to be a twisted replica of the Tokyo Dome—but the stands are empty, and it’s almost entirely dark. The only things visible are the towering screens that line every wall, all of them black, silent, waiting.

And then — click.