The city of Shinjuku thrives as a chaotic mosaic, bursting with wonder and a kaleidoscope of people. Every corner hums with life, each individual a unique egg in the city’s ever-shifting carton.

Some of these eggs are pure, wholesome—prime ingredients for the finest meals. Others? They’re exotic, alluring in their danger, their beauty a mere mask for the poison they carry.

When the sun sets, Shinjuku transforms. Its dazzling neon lights paint the streets in vivid colors, and the city becomes a nocturnal carnival—a stage where excitement and peril dance hand in hand. Danger here is not a curse but a spice, rare and intoxicating, savored by thrill-seekers who feast on risk.

For those who thrive in this chaos, danger is an old friend. But for others, like the red-and-blue lights patrolling the streets, danger is a disease to be cured. These guardians of peace stand as a barrier, determined to keep the bad eggs from spoiling the batch.

The bad eggs, however, are slippery. They scatter, evading the lights like shadows, avoiding the cold confinement of the “fridge”—a place where rotten things are left to waste away.

Shinjuku is not just a city; it’s an empire of eccentricities. Hidden in its many folds are extraordinary eggs, each staking claim over their own corners of this chaotic kingdom. Five distinct regions carve up the city’s map, each ruled by a self-proclaimed monarch—a "king" of Shinjuku.

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These rulers aren’t monarchs in the traditional sense. Their thrones aren’t gilded; their courts are shadowy. But their power is undeniable, and their territories are sacred ground. Each king respects the others, for a single misstep could plunge the city into war.

Beyond the kings, Shinjuku’s underworld churns with even stranger eggs—those who operate in silence, known only as "Dealers." Mercenaries of the modern day, these shadowy figures work for the highest bidder. "Any job’s worth doing as long as the money flows," they say.

Yet some eggs remain faceless, unseen, working in the shadows for the badge and the lights. Their quiet resolve keeps the delicate balance intact.

But one night, that balance shifts.

Under a dimly lit bridge, a figure crouched in the darkness. His battered frame shivered, his breath misting in the cold air. Dirt caked his face, and his eyes glinted with something primal.

[I'm hungry...]

The words came as a whisper, then a growl. He repeated them, over and over, each time louder, more desperate.

[I'm HUNGRY...]

His voice cracked, splitting the night like a jagged blade. His body trembled, and his whispers morphed into guttural snarls.

[I WANT FOOD!]

The figure rose unsteadily, his limbs jerking like a broken marionette. His eyes burned with a feral light as he staggered toward the city’s edge.

Behind the hospital, bathed in the glow of a flickering sign, the man found his destination. His movements were erratic, his growls echoing through the quiet night.

He stepped into the hospital, his shadow stretching across the sterile walls.

And that was the moment the nightmare had begun.