Knock knock knock.

Miyako Fukanora froze like someone had just pointed a gun at her. One hand still deep in a folder full of gang documents she 100% should not be touching.

Another knock, faster this time.

“Yo, Kaito!”
The voice was male, a little rough, a little annoyed.
“Open up, man. I gotta take a shit — mine’s clogged.”

Miyako blinked.

“What.”

“You heard me, dude. Open the door before I blow your hallway up.”

She frantically shoved the folder under the mattress, slammed the desk drawer shut, and wiped her hands like that somehow erased the evidence.

“Uh—yeah, hold up!” she called out, voice cracking slightly. She coughed. Tried again, lower. “One sec!”

She looked around the room. Still a disaster. Still noodles on the bed. Still dirty boxers haunting the corner.

She opened the door just enough to peek out.

Standing there was a guy maybe two years older, hair a mess, holding a plunger like it was a weapon of war. Sweat beading at his temple.

“Move.”

“Seriously?” she asked, deadpan.

“Yes. I’m about to commit biological warfare if I don’t hit porcelain in the next thirty seconds.”

Miyako stepped aside, watching in awe as Kaito’s brother shoved past her and disappeared into the bathroom like a man on a mission.

SLAM.

The door closed.

“This is my life now,” she muttered, staring at the wall. “This is what the dream world gave me.”

From inside the bathroom, a loud groan echoed.

“GOD. Damn. I knew that curry was cursed.”

Miyako covered her ears.

“Nope. Not doing this. Not listening to the enemy drop bombs in stereo.”

She went back to the bed and sat down.

Her fingers itched to grab that folder again — dig deeper. But the image of a half-naked guy screaming in a toilet fifteen feet away killed the vibe.

“How am I second-in-command in a gang and still living like this?”

Miyako Fukanora sat on the edge of Kaito’s bed, arms resting on her thighs, eyes locked on the dirty ramen cup by her feet like it held some kind of secret.

The smell of whatever war crime Kaito’s brother was committing in the bathroom lingered faintly down the hall, but she didn’t flinch.

She was somewhere else — mentally.

"If I can eat…"
She said it quietly.
"And I can taste it..."

Her fingers twitched against her knees.

She reached up and pinched her cheek again — just to be sure. Not hard. Just enough.

"Ow."

A real sting. No dream delay. No fuzzy sensation.

She sat very, very still.

"Okay, so I can feel."

She looked down at Kaito’s hands. Real. Solid. Hers — for now.

"I can move on my own, taste food, feel pain..."
She licked her lips.
"So what happens if I get… stabbed? Shot? Killed?"

The question hit her like a gut punch.

She imagined it — lying in the street, someone standing over her, blood soaking into Kaito’s jacket.

Would she wake up?

Or would she just… stop?

Her hands tightened into fists.

"Nope. Not going there."

She stood up. Started pacing.

"It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. All dreams feel intense when you're in 'em. You don’t question flying when it happens, you just do it. So this? Same deal."

She stopped in front of the mirror again.

Kaito’s reflection looked back. Tired. Serious. The kind of face that didn’t waste words.

But behind that?

Her.

Still loud, still confused, still laughing too hard in the wrong moments.

Still her.

"I’m not living someone else’s life."
She said it out loud, like that would make it true.

"I’m not trapped. I’m just dreaming like a dumbass."

She looked down again, flexed her fingers, then gave herself a sharp little slap on the cheek.

Not out of fear.
Just to prove it.

"See? No blood. Still dreaming."

She sat back down.

"Totally normal dream stuff."