Motoko's door isn't so much a door as a net gate, glowing brightly white in the relative gloom, and very clearly digital in origin, crawling with both English and Japanese, labels detonating it as her own.

On the other side, a burst of blue-white fills your eye, and if you can keep them open, a momentary glimpse of a midnight field dotted with glowing lights and traveling data-packets like shooting stars: the Net as seen from within. It fades quickly, leaving an aftgerimage, and before it can be fully grasped you find yourself in an empty studio apartment, spartanly furnished, but elegantly designed in steel and obsidian, lit in a blue tone and windows ringed round. Welcome to Motoko's home; you getter get the fuck out of her head before she fries you for violating her barriers.