“Dreams don’t mean shit.”

Miyako Fukanora muttered it to herself for the fifth time in a row.

She kicked off her blanket, rolled onto her stomach, then immediately flipped onto her back again like her bed was made of needles.

Her room was still quiet. Her ceiling still didn’t have answers. Her body still felt like it had run ten laps in the dark.

But she wasn’t going to let some weird-ass hallucination hijack her night.

"I’ve had stress dreams before. That one just had better production value. That’s all."

She reached for her phone, saw the battery was still dead, and let her arm drop onto the floor with a dull thud.

“Stupid brain. You can’t even give me hot people in my dreams?” she grumbled, dragging the blanket back up to her chin.

She closed her eyes.

“Not my problem. Just a stupid dream.”

Concrete again.

This time, colder.

Louder.

Her eyes snapped open.

But she wasn't in her room.

She was back in it — that other life.

A wide garage — oil-stained floors, the heavy stink of sweat, motor oil, and cigarette smoke pressing into the air like a second skin. The hum of voices filled the space, low and rough like a pack of wolves gathering before a hunt.

Miyako looked around — or rather, Kaito did.

Because once again, she wasn't herself.

Bandaged knuckles. Scuffed black boots. Heavy jacket slung loose over his frame.

She sat — no, he sat — against a concrete pillar, a leg bouncing, arms resting across his knees.

Beside her — his side — two boys leaned back lazily on a stack of crates, one tossing a lighter between his fingers, the other picking at an old scar on his wrist.

Across the garage, a group of fifteen, maybe twenty guys were gathered. Some sat on bike seats, some leaned against walls, all waiting.

The tension in the room was thick. Not angry — not yet — but full of something heavy and rising.

"Alright, shut up."

The voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Everyone turned.

A boy — maybe seventeen — stood on top of an overturned crate like it was a stage. Short buzzed hair. Jaw like iron. His coat was heavier than the rest, stitched with red kanji that ran down the sleeves like blood.

His eyes — sharp. Alive. Leader energy.

"Tomorrow, we take the east block."
"Sakurakai's been pushing into our turf too long."
"We push back, hard."

Murmurs echoed across the space. Some nods. Some grins.

Miyako — inside Kaito — didn’t say anything. But her hands clenched.

The air felt… wrong.

Too still.

Then — like a lightning bolt with no thunder — it hit.

A flash. A vision. Not a memory. Not a dream. Something else.

She saw it:

— the same boy standing on the crate —
— his head turned slightly —
— then crack —
— a bat slamming across his skull —
— blood, the kind that spatters across walls —
— his body falling —
— legs twitching —
— silence from the crowd —
— and then screaming.

Miyako gasped — inside Kaito — and flinched.

But the room was normal again.

No blood.
No bat.
Just the gang, listening. Waiting.

The boy on the crate hadn’t even moved.

“We take them down fast,” he said, unaware of anything else. “Kaito. You’re watching the left flank.”

Miyako’s — Kaito’s — mouth opened automatically.

"Yeah." The voice was lower. Tougher. Not hers. But it came from her lips.

Inside, Miyako was screaming.

"What the fuck was that?!"

But no one heard her.
Because she wasn’t awake.

And she wasn’t in control.