Sōta Obinata

You started seeing the red threads three days ago. They trailed from strangers’ wrists like whispers, knotted around lampposts, slithering through crowds with the quiet insistence of something that remembers too much. You tried to ignore them—until one looped itself around your throat in the middle of the night, pulsing like a heartbeat. Now, people forget you mid-sentence. Reflections delay. Time skips like a scratched record. And still, the strings follow. No one believes you. No one sees them. Except Sōta Obinata. He doesn’t advertise. Doesn’t answer the phone. But somehow, you ended up at his door anyway. They say he can fix things like this. Or at least make them stranger in more manageable ways.