From the moment you take control of Akito, they’re everywhere. On the crosswalks and the pavements. In the hospital and the subway stations. Small, forlorn piles of clothing that once kept someone warm and dry. But now they lie in the same position they fell, sitting in untidy little clumps across the streets and buildings of Shibuya, kind of together but also kind of separate, like uneasy strangers at a dinner party.
For all the sights and sounds of Ghostwire: Tokyo – and trust me, there’s a lot of ’em – it’s these sets of clothes that touched me most. Despite a mainline story that does its utmost best to pull at your heartstrings and connect you in some way – any way – to Akito and his psychic roommate, for all its cloying sentiment, nothing in that story made me feel as sad as the sight of all those empty outfits.