In Drifting, Tokyo takes center stage, not just as a setting but as a character in its own right. Rikuto Uchiumi captures the city in its everyday moments: think glistening wet streets, plain residential buildings, exposed pipes, tiled walls, and lush greenery burdened by rain. These spaces are meant for simply passing through, yet here they form the backdrop for a fashion narrative where the theme of not quite fitting in prevails. Haruno navigates these scenes like a delightful disruption. Stylist Maiko Karima cleverly juxtaposes the neighborhood’s practicality with high fashion—imagine a flowing white dress paired with oversized round sunglasses nestled amid ordinary homes, or a ghostly figure in a frayed white knit and an exaggerated wig strolling under an umbrella. In other shots, a striking all-black outfit with a crisp white collar and sharp heels transforms the underside of an apartment building into something akin to a stage. There’s a nod to Japanese New Wave cinema in the way Uchiumi highlights these overlooked spaces, reminiscent of the quiet detachment found in the works of Hiroshi Sugimoto or the urban solitude captured by Wim Wenders. Yet, Uchiumi steers clear of glamorizing the city. His Tokyo feels authentically lived-in—with a toilet door, an air-conditioning unit, a plant on a speaker, and clothes piled in a room all given equal importance to the clothing on display. This balance is what makes Drifting resonate. Fashion often demands its surroundings to embrace fantasy, but here, it feels as though fantasy has intruded on a space it doesn’t completely fit. Haruno oscillates between different worlds: inside and out, styled and disguised, visible yet somehow removed from her environment. Even the rain plays its part without theatrics. It leaves everything with a subtle sheen, allowing the slower pace of the city to reveal its often-overlooked details. Drifting crafts its unique atmosphere right there, in that delicate space between truly living in a place and merely passing through it.