Morning came to Class D like a shadow that refused to lift.
Usually, the room buzzed with half-awake chatter, laughter, and petty complaints.
Today, it was almost silent.
The air felt heavier — as if something unseen had pressed down on them all during the night.
Karuizawa fidgeted with her phone, then glanced around nervously.
— Guys… did any of you have weird dreams last night?
Sudō groaned, leaning back in his chair.
— What, another beach-shopping fantasy?
She shook her head quickly.
— No. Not this time.
Her voice trembled.
— It was… awful. Really awful.
Ichinose raised her eyes slowly.
— I dreamed of the same thing, I think.
A ruined city… people lying in the streets… everything burning.
Horikita's voice came low, almost mechanical.
— And the piano.
She hesitated.
— Someone was playing. A slow, tragic melody.
The class froze.
One by one, they exchanged looks — Karuizawa, Ichinose, Sudō… even Ayanokōji's expression shifted slightly.
Sudō swallowed hard.
— Wait. No way…
You all saw him too?
The guy… burning?
Karuizawa covered her mouth with her hand. Ichinose nodded weakly.
Even Horikita's calm fractured into unease.
Ayanokōji's voice cut through the silence — level, but tight.
— We all saw the same thing.
The door slid open.
Every head turned.
Ichigo Kurosaki stepped inside — casual, unhurried, a carton of milk in hand.
His face was calm, almost cheerful, like someone who'd just woken from a pleasant sleep.
He looked around the room, sensing the tension that clung to every desk, every breath.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then he smiled.
— What's with the gloomy faces?
He took a sip of milk, raised an eyebrow.
— I told you, burning was fun.
The silence deepened — not the silence of confusion, but of fear.
Karuizawa flinched. Ichinose went pale. Sudō's fists clenched under the desk.
Horikita only stared, lips pressed tight.
Ayanokōji's voice was quiet but sharp.
— Fun?
He paused.
— Then maybe you can explain why we all saw the same dream.
Ichigo froze. The smile vanished.
He walked past Ayanokōji, sat down at his desk, and turned his gaze toward the window.
When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost gentle.
— Maybe you just took my story too seriously.
He met Ayanokōji's eyes for a moment.
— Or maybe… I just tell stories too well.
He turned away.
No one said another word.
Outside, sunlight glimmered on the window glass —
and somewhere, far off, a faint smell of smoke lingered in the air.