"Okay but seriously..."
Miyako leaned closer over the lunch table like she was about to confess a federal crime.
"Some of them are kinda hot."

Sumire paused mid-sip of her melon soda.

"...What?"

"The guys. The gang guys. Not all of them — like two or three, max. But you know that sharp-jawed, quiet one? He’s got that tired-but-deadly look. You know I’ve got a thing for emotionally unavailable murderers."

Sumire raised one brow.

"You’re saying this while being in a dude’s body. Are you hearing yourself?"

"Okay but like, I’m still me on the inside!"
Miyako half-laughed, half-panicked.
"Like yeah, I’ve got a dick in the dream — I assume — but emotionally I’m still a girl. With standards. And those standards include ‘tall, dark, and probably carries a knife.’"

"That’s definitely gay, though."

"Shut the hell up."
Miyako threw a napkin at her.
"It’s dream hot. It doesn’t count."

"Sure, sure. Just make sure you don’t get a dream boner and wake up with real-life regret."

Miyako groaned.
"Why are you like this?"

"You chose me. I didn’t ask to be your emotional support cryptid."

They both laughed, but Miyako slumped back down a second later, her tray now half-pushed away.

"No but like... this shit is getting under my skin."
Her voice dropped again.
"Every time I wake up I feel like I didn’t rest at all. Like my body’s here but my brain’s still stuck in gangland."

Sumire peeled open a pudding cup with surgical precision.

"So you’re tired, horny, and possibly possessed by a crime syndicate. Got it."

"Sumire, I swear to god—"

"Look, maybe your brain’s just trying to work through some trauma. Maybe you’re a repressed vigilante. Maybe you watched one too many delinquent dramas when you were twelve and this is your subconscious purging it."

Miyako flailed her arms.
"I knew I shouldn’t have rewatched that fight scene compilation last month!"

Sumire leaned in slightly, eyes dry, voice low.

"Or maybe..."

"What?"
Miyako blinked.

"You’re developing a god complex and your dreams are evolving to match."

"God, I hope so. At least then I could smite people during math."

They laughed again, but the energy had shifted. Beneath the jokes, Miyako’s mind was spinning.

The standing up, the feeling of the floor under her boots, the way the gang looked at her like she belonged...

She couldn't explain it. But she knew — deep down — something wasn’t right.

And she had the fucked-up feeling it was only going to get worse.