Innocent Ghost criminals

The neon glow of Shinjuku flickered against the rain-slick pavement, casting long, fractured reflections in the puddles. In a dimly lit backroom of an old teahouse, a man in a worn-out beret scrolled through his phone, his fingers trembling. Hayato Kuroda, once one of Ghibli’s finest animators, had stumbled upon something far worse than art theft.

“It’s not just animation,” he murmured, his voice hollow. “It’s people.”

Across from him, Takahashi, the fixer, tapped his cigarette against a porcelain dish. “They call it Project Mnemosyne,” he said, sliding a tablet across the table. The screen flickered to life, displaying an innocuous-looking website: GhibliGen Create Your Own Anime Portrait for Free!

Hayato frowned. “I’ve seen this. It’s just a novelty AI.”

Takahashi’s lips curled into a grim smirk. “That’s what they want you to think. Millions of people upload their photos every day, thinking they’re getting a harmless Ghibli-style portrait.” He tapped again, and a second screen appeared rows of stolen identities, neatly cataloged. “But behind the scenes, the AI isn’t just redrawing faces. It’s mapping them. Extracting biometric data. And then... ”

“Selling them?” Hayato’s stomach clenched.

Takahashi nodded. “To Syndicate-X. The biggest black-market data operation in the world. They don’t just sell your face, Hayato. They implant it.”

A cold chill ran through him. “Implant?”

Takahashi swiped again, revealing a security footage still. A man Hayato’s face, his features, his exact expression caught on camera robbing a high-end jewelry store in Osaka. Another swipe Hayato, again, but this time on an international watchlist for smuggling.

“They deepfake your entire existence onto crimes you never committed,” Takahashi said, voice low. “They take nobodies, artists, students, people without power and turn them into ghost criminals. By the time the authorities investigate, the real perpetrators are long gone, leaving only the stolen face behind.”

Hayato’s breath turned shallow. “How long has this been going on?”

Takahashi exhaled smoke. “Years. But it’s accelerating. AI makes it easy. Too easy.”

A sudden knock at the teahouse door. Both men froze.

Takahashi’s jaw tightened. “They know we’re talking.”

The door creaked open slowlyy. Three figures stepped in sleek suits, eyes like polished steel. Corporate enforcers.

One of them, a tall man with slicked-back hair, spoke with a voice too smooth, too precise. “Kuroda-san,” he said with a thin smile. “We see you’ve been exploring our services, what's one thing agreeable is it was easy ughmmm, I mean Good to work with you.”

Hayato felt his pulse quicken. “You stole my identity.”

The man chuckled. “No, no… We simply borrowed it.” He tapped his wristwatch, and a holographic projection flickered to life.

A flash news broadcast: Hayato Kuroda, Wanted for Cyber Crimes. His own face, his name, was plastered across the screen.

The enforcer leaned in. “You see, Kuroda-san, art is outdated. But identity? That’s the new currency.”

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Ps-

The hand moves slowly, guided by patience, by devotion in precision and passion. Each mark and each stroke carries a weight beyond ink and paper, it breathes life full of emotions and feelings. Hayao Miyazaki has spent decades proving that animation is not merely a craft for fun, but a living thing, cultivated with care, nurtured by time Every fluttering leaf in the wind, every ripple in the water, every fleeting expression of a character’s soul are fragments of an artist’s heartbeat, pieces of existence carved through practice and talent of skilled labor.

He has watched, in quiet horror. The world shifts towards effortless mimicry. Machines, built to consume and replicate, now threaten the very essence of what he has dedicated his life to. A lifeless facsimile can never capture the trembling imperfection of a hand-drawn the real line, nor the quiet humanity woven into a moment of stillness. Miyazaki once called the use of AI in art “disgusting”. his words carried the sorrow of an artist witnessing something sacred being defiled.

As you you create Ghiili by Ai, or watch other's create one. Please say them not to do so. Stop Ai Ghibli

Ghibli was never just about animation. it was about feeling, about immersing oneself in the ordinary made extraordinary through effort and love. And now, in this age of instant generation, where stories are churned out without struggle. where motion is created without hands, it is the tragedy for human advancement. The Ghibli way of long years spent on a single film, of animators who devote themselves to a mere handful of frames, of beauty sculpted through patience faces the threat of erosion and decaying of a strong symolism. Now you have search to find what's real and what not.

What is left when the soul is removed? What is animation without the animator’s aching wrist mitigating tiny works, without the moments of doubt. What is it worth without the quiet victories of creation? The tragedy of Ghibli is not its end,but the world’s failure to understand why it was even made that way to begin with. If no one values the intricate care that built it, then even the most beautiful film may become an antique, remembered but not repeated.

The old master still sketches, his fingers still moving with the grace of a man who knows the weight of every line. The difference in gravity between his art and any other form. In his silence, in his disdain for the artificial, he reminds the world of one truth. True art is born not in comfort but of struggle. And some things must never be imitated.