Reiko Kujirai, a 32-year-old real estate agent, navigates the neon-lit labyrinth of Kowloon Walled City #2, a reconstructed urban sprawl where she brokers properties for Wong Loi Realty Company. Her short black hair frames a face marked by a beauty spot beneath wire-rimmed glasses—an aesthetic choice preserved from Kujirai-B, the confident predecessor whose memories she lacks. Though corrective lenses no longer serve her eyes, their presence tethers her to the ghost of a woman she cannot recall: Hajime Kudou’s brash fiancée, who ended her life with sleeping pills.

Memory loss defines Reiko’s existence, erasing knowledge of her engagement to coworker Hajime and her past role as his mentor. Forensic revelations expose her as Kujirai-B’s clone, yet her temperament diverges sharply—restrained where her progenitor was bold, emotionally translucent where the original opaquely self-assured. Even their palates contrast: lemon chicken replaces nostalgic comfort foods.

Her days weave through crowded corridors between colleagues—Yaomay, a doll-crafting seamstress, and Xiaohei, the part-time laborer—who anchor her quest for an “absolute me.” This search collides with harsh truths when she learns her consciousness binds to the city’s artificial infrastructure; beyond its borders, she becomes imperceptible to outsiders.

Interactions with Hajime form a volatile dance of intimacy and avoidance. His unresolved grief for Kujirai-B clashes with Reiko’s emergent affection, culminating in a retreat after shared physicality resurrects spectral comparisons. She cultivates compensatory rituals—post-watermelon cigarettes, temporary abandonment and reclamation of glasses—as tactile reminders of autonomy.

Each stylistic choice and habitual gesture becomes a manifesto against her cloned origin, charting incremental acceptance of an identity neither fully original nor entirely borrowed. The city’s steel arteries pulse around her, bearing witness as she disentangles synthetic echoes from self-authored truths.