He wrapped the belt around his waist. It was too large—it had belonged to a man named Takumi, long dead or long gone. But as the buckle clicked, it shrank, molding to Riku’s skinny frame.
Riku’s scar itched. He touched the drive. It was searing hot. A pop-up flickered on the rack’s ancient LCD screen, text crawling in a font he hadn’t seen since childhood: kamen rider 555 internet archive
Riku cracked his knuckles inside the gauntlets. “Let me show you the 404 error.” He wrapped the belt around his waist
He was 26, a washed-out coding bootcamp dropout, and the last person anyone would expect to save the world. His only distinction was a scar on his palm, earned as a child when he’d found a shattered belt buckle near the ashes of the Smart Brain tower. Riku’s scar itched