The room was quiet.

The hum of the fan overhead barely masked the sound of Miyako Fukanora and Sumire Kaneshiro breathing in sync.

They’d laughed, talked shit, and now they were passed out. Lights off. The city outside buzzed on without them.

Everything was still.

Until—

Sumire’s world snapped into pain.

Not confusion. Not a soft fade-in like dreams usually gave.

Just blinding pain.

She was on the ground, coughing, choking, body twisted awkwardly on cracked pavement. Her shirt — unfamiliar, heavy — was soaked in blood.

Her blood.

“What—what the fuck—”

Another stab. Through her ribs.

A scream ripped from her throat. Ragged. Sharp. Terrified.

She grabbed at her side, trying to crawl. Her fingers scraped against concrete.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see clearly. Her vision was fuzzy, dark at the edges.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

A figure stepped into the streetlight above her — blurred, faceless, but holding the blade like it belonged there.

“Please—what the fuck is happening—”

The words came out in a voice that wasn’t hers.
Deeper. Broken. Male.

Her heart pounded as another knife plunged into her shoulder.

And another into her side.

She was too weak to scream now.

Just a wheeze. A sob.

The attacker didn’t say a word.

Just stabbed.

And stabbed.

And stabbed.

Until everything went black.

The world eased in this time. No shock. No blood. No flashes of panic.

Just the quiet crunch of gravel beneath boots.

Miyako Fukanora blinked open her eyes and felt the familiar weight of Kaito’s body settle in around her like a jacket she’d worn too many times.

Loose sleeves. Sore shoulders. Callused knuckles.

She was back.

And walking.

The late-day sun stretched down the empty street, casting long shadows across the concrete. Store signs flickered in the corners of her vision. A distant dog barked. It was… peaceful.

A voice beside her broke the calm.

“Oi, you listening?”

She turned her head automatically.

Kaito’s brother — tall, rough-edged, hands shoved deep into his pockets — looked over at her with a sideways glare.

Miyako coughed and tried to cover up her lag.
“Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

He rolled his eyes.
“Told you to stop skipping lunch. You get all weird when you’re hungry.”

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, even though her stomach growled right after.

They stopped in front of a small corner shop — the kind with dust-covered snacks, mismatched shelves, and that always-weird buzzing light above the door.

Kaito’s brother pushed it open.
“Grab your crap. I’m getting smokes.”

“Classy,” Miyako muttered under her breath, stepping inside after him.

The bell above the door jingled once.

Inside was cramped but warm. The floor creaked under every step. An old TV played some grainy martial arts movie in the background. No one else in the store except for the wrinkled old guy behind the counter.

Miyako walked the aisles slowly.

Chips. Ramen. Old soda bottles stacked in crates.

It was the first time in a while that this dream-world felt... stable.

No one was yelling.
No gang tension.
No fuzzy visions.

Just her. Her brother. A run to the store.