The school looked perfect the next morning.
The buildings gleamed in the sunlight, the corridors were clean, the laughter of students echoed through the air — everything seemed normal.
And yet… it wasn't.
Their movements felt slower.
Their faces, paler.
And in their eyes — something unspoken. A faint, collective fear.
Ayanokōji noticed it immediately.
He watched without speaking — during lessons, during breaks, in the cafeteria.
He saw the tiny hesitations, the strange pauses in conversations.
Some students would stop mid-sentence and stare into nothing.
Others would wrinkle their noses, as if smelling smoke no one else could see.
It isn't just our class, he thought.
It's everyone.
The boundary is gone.
During lunch, he turned to Ichinose.
— Did you talk to anyone from the other classes yesterday?
She nodded, uneasy.
— Yes…
I spoke with a girl from Class A. She saw it too. The same dream.
— And the teachers? — he asked.
Ichinose hesitated.
— Mr. Saitō said he didn't sleep at all last night.
He's afraid to fall asleep.
Ayanokōji lowered his gaze.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then it's not psychological.
It's spreading through the collective mind.
Someone — or something — is creating a shared space of consciousness.
And at the center of it all… is Kurosaki.
He began to collect data.
Quietly.
Systematically.
He spoke to several students, even a gym technician.
All the answers were the same.
The burning city.
The dead lying in the streets.
The music.
And Ichigo — playing, burning, alive.
Later, in the library, he opened his notebook.
The pages were filled with small, precise handwriting — rows of observations, cross-references, times.
He wrote:
"All 812 students and 43 staff members report identical or similar imagery.
Sleep time synchronized between 02:13 and 02:19.
Six minutes of total silence recorded by the school's security cameras."
He read the words twice, then continued.
"During that time, a brief power outage occurred.
Temperature sensors registered a localized heat spike.
Source: music room."
His eyes stopped on the word heat.
He remembered the smell of smoke.
The charred piano key.
Ichigo's voice: 'Maybe I just never left.'
Ayanokōji whispered to himself:
— If the whole school saw the same dream…
— Then maybe someone here hasn't woken up.
He lifted his head.
In the dark reflection of the library window, a silhouette stood at the doorway.
Ichigo.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Only watched.
In his eyes — calm, steady — burned a faint reflection of fire.
Ichigo said quietly:
— Now they've all seen it.
— And now… they're all part of it.