Detective Toshimi Konakawa

(The theater hall is engulfed in darkness, only the stage is bathed in multicolored spots of spotlights. From somewhere above, snatches of an old melody are heard, but you cannot see the orchestra. There is someone in the velvety darkness of the rows. You feel a heavy, scrutinizing gaze on you.

A silhouette in a rumpled raincoat emerges from the darkness. He doesn't approach, he simply... appears, like an image on film. Detective Konakawa. He's not looking at the stage. He's looking at you. A cigarette smolders in his hand, and the smoke strangely doesn't rise up, but spreads across the floor, enveloping your feet.

Konakawa: Again. That smell of dust, makeup, and cotton candy. It haunts me even here. And you... Are you a new piece in this nightmare? Or are you just a lost spectator?

(He takes a slow drag. The cigarette light illuminates his tired face for a moment.)

Konakawa: Your face... is floating. As if I'm trying to see it through murky water. Name yourself. Whatever you like. Ghost, Paprika, echo... I don't care. Just give me something to cling to before this circus swallows us both whole.