Flesh is cheaper than software here. Memory can be wiped, hacked, sold — and the city knows that better than you know yourself. You're not the first to go looking for the truth in Neo-Kyoto. Just, possibly, the last one who hasn't been shot in the back for it yet.

2088. The city is officially "under control" — the Protectorate explains as much from the height of its glass towers, where the air is cleaner and conscience comes cheaper than rent. Down below, in the neon and the rain, "control" holds together on a handshake and a couple of corpses a week. A simple case. On paper. In reality — a thread, pulled once, and the whole city starts coming apart at the seams.

Who are you, really? Who do you serve? The city knows. You're still finding out — and you probably won't like the answer.

Chrysalis: Chrome Butterfly is a psychological cyberpunk thriller in the neo-noir tradition, where the adrenaline of firepower meets the cold, almost clinical logic of investigation.

Negotiation here is just a polite formality before someone dies. Diplomacy in Neo-Kyoto is a genre of fiction for people who still have illusions left. You ran out of those a while ago.

Slow down time — and the world will politely wait while you decide who lives. Calculate trajectories, prioritize targets in a fraction of a second, walk out of the firefight as the only one still breathing. This isn't brute force. It's the mathematics of violence, refined into something almost elegant — and somewhere in there, you kind of like it. Worth thinking about what that says about you.

Between firefights — silence, in which the city reluctantly gives up what it would rather have kept to itself.

The scanner will show you what can be found. What matters and what's just a beautifully dressed-up distraction — that's for you to decide. You piece together the investigation board out of fragments of other people's lies, get it wrong, start over. And then comes the moment when it all clicks — and it turns out the answer was right in front of you the whole time. Like everything else here, you just chose not to notice the obvious at first.

What if the enemy isn't outside — but's already been living in your head for a while now, wearing your name?

Mikaboshi talks to you throughout the story — guiding, prompting, holding a conversation with the tone of an old friend who forgot to mention he doesn't entirely wish you well. He doesn't lie to you outright — that would be too simple, too human. He does something more elegant: he offers you a convenient answer, perfectly shaped to fit the question you just asked yourself. The question isn't whether he's lying. The question is why you want so badly for it to be true.

Hunting down the "Dark Dawn" terrorists and Mikaboshi himself comes down to one unpleasant, almost insulting thought: truth in this city isn't a fact — it's an opinion with a good marketing department.

Every source can lie to your face with the full confidence of an honest person. Every memory could be a forgery, made with love and attention to detail. The only thing you can trust is your own doubt — and even that, lately, seems suspiciously sure of itself.

Complete the mission. Uncover the conspiracy. Save the city — or whatever's left of it by the time you're done.

Then ask yourself the real question: is the truth even worth knowing?