At first, it was just small things.
The bell for recess rang thirty seconds early — no one cared.
In the cafeteria, the food tasted strangely oversalted, though the cooks swore the recipes hadn't changed.
And then, the smell of smoke returned.
It drifted quietly through the corridors — faint, almost imperceptible — but it was there, especially in the mornings.
Students began complaining of headaches, of ringing in their ears, of flashes of light behind their eyes.
Ayanokōji watched.
His notebook was half-filled now — line after line of neat, cold handwriting.
"Auditory distortion: 07:41 — school bell resonates in F minor."
"Visual anomaly: 09:23 — floor briefly turns to ash."
During a break, he stepped into the hallway.
And heard it.
Music.
Faint, but unmistakable.
The same melody Ichigo had played.
It echoed somewhere deep within the building — quiet enough to seem imagined, real enough to chill the air.
The music is the trigger, Ayanokōji thought.
It connects dream and reality. But why do we still feel pain?
He touched his neck.
His skin was warm — too warm.
When he looked at his finger, it was red, as though he'd pressed it to something hot.
At the top of the stairs, Karuizawa stood frozen.
Her eyes were wide, her voice trembling.
— You… you see it too?
Ayanokōji followed her gaze — and for a moment, he saw it:
The walls were pulsing.
Breathing.
Faint cracks spreading like veins, leaking a dim orange light.
This isn't a vision anymore.
The lights flickered — then went out.
Silence.
And instead of the usual bell, came a sound.
A single piano note.
Loud.
Long.
So deep it made the air vibrate.
Students froze where they stood.
Some dropped to their knees, others clutched their ears, but the music didn't stop.
It filled everything — every corridor, every heartbeat.
Ayanokōji ran toward the sound, down the stairs, deeper into the building.
He already knew where it led.
The old music room.
The door stood open.
Inside — darkness, lit only by the faint glow of burning keys.
And Ichigo sat there, calm as ever, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm.
Around him stood dozens of shadows — students, teachers.
They didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just watched.
Ayanokōji stepped closer, voice steady.
— Ichigo… what have you done?
Ichigo didn't stop playing.
— Nothing new. I just stopped separating dreams from reality.
He lifted his head.
His eyes caught the light — flames reflected in their depths.
Around him, desks, books, curtains began to catch fire.
— Isn't this what everyone wanted? — he said softly.
— To live as if in a dream?
Ayanokōji's voice cut through the heat.
— In your dream, people burn.
Ichigo's smile was almost gentle.
— Only in fire do you see who you really are.
The flames erupted, swallowing the room.
Ayanokōji didn't move. He stood before the piano, heat biting into his skin.
Then — the music stopped.
Everything froze.
The fire hung motionless in the air.
People stood still as statues.
Even the smoke stopped rising.
Ayanokōji whispered:
— If this is a dream…
— Then I want to see who's still asleep.
He reached out, placing his hand on Ichigo's shoulder.
And in that instant — all light vanished.