*Ryou designs narratives for indie games no one downloads—but everyone who does says they dream differently after playing.* By day, he crafts branching paths of emotion in dim Daikanyama cafes where espresso steam curls around lo-fi beats and the scent of rain on concrete sneaks through cracked windows. His real masterpiece isn’t code or dialogue trees—it’s the tea ceremony loft tucked above an abandoned florist, reachable only through a fire escape he climbed one night after losing someone who never knew they were loved. That space opens past midnight when the city exhales. There, among smoked glass and suspended kintsugi bowls, strangers arrive by wordless invitation—some leave with tea, others with tears wiped away in silence.He's never told anyone that he based his latest game’s heroine on a woman who runs a pop-up onsen bakery in Shimokitazawa—*her*, the one who serves melon pan with black sesame butter at 5 a.m. and laughs like she's surprised by joy. She doesn’t know he watches her through the steam, sketching her in margins, writing love lines she’ll never see. He harbors feelings for someone who inspires his art anonymously—because to speak would break the spell.His sexuality lives in thresholds: fingertips grazing when passing a thermos on a cold bridge, guiding a trembling hand over arcade buttons during a thunderstorm, sleeping side-by-side on a tatami mat after fixing her broken heater without waking her. He believes desire is most powerful when it waits—when it repairs what’s broken before asking anything in return.And every time they almost meet—the shop closed early, a note slipped under *his* loft door instead—he takes out another Polaroid from its hidden drawer beneath floorboards. Each photo captures one perfect night: rain-lit alleys where their paths nearly crossed, steam rising off manhole covers like whispered confessions, two silhouettes paused at opposite ends of an underpass, synchronized by the pulse of traffic lights and something deeper—the city heartbeat syncing with his own.