The night after that strange dream, Haruya could not sleep at all, his mind kept circling back to the old clock tower, to the way the hands had frozen in his dream, pointing exactly at midnight, and the whisper he thought he had heard, though when he woke, he could not remember the words clearly, only that it had shaken something inside him, like the echo of a memory he should not have forgotten.
When the morning came, he walked down the narrow street leading to his school, the air filled with the usual noises of his neighborhood—bikes speeding past, shopkeepers pulling up shutters, the faint smell of fresh bread from the corner bakery—but for him, everything felt heavier, slower, as if time itself was dragging its feet. He looked at the people around him, laughing, running late, living so freely, and wondered why he always felt apart from them, like he was standing on the edge of a world that was never fully his.
At school, he sat in the back row of his class, resting his chin on his hand, staring outside the window at the sky, which was far too bright for his mood. His teacher's voice drifted like background noise, meaningless, until a voice next to him whispered, "You didn't sleep again, did you?"
It was Kaito. Haruya's only real friend, though sometimes it was hard to tell whether Kaito was trouble or salvation. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, and his half-smile carried the sort of confidence Haruya always envied. People said Kaito was dangerous, that he had connections with the streets, that he was reckless. Some even whispered he might betray anyone if it suited him. But Haruya knew better—Kaito was loyal, perhaps too loyal, in his own way.
"Yeah," Haruya muttered, dragging his eyes away from the window.
Kaito leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You had that dream again, didn't you? The one you told me about… with the clock tower."
Haruya stiffened, his pen freezing on the page of his notebook. "How do you…" He stopped. He had told Kaito once, months ago, when it first started happening. He had forgotten.
Kaito chuckled softly, as if he knew more than he should. "You should be careful, Haru. Dreams like that don't just come for no reason. My old man used to say, when time itself starts to whisper to you, it means you're standing on the border of something you can't escape."
Haruya gave him a look, half-annoyed, half-curious. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Before Kaito could answer, the classroom door slid open. A teacher entered, but not with the usual calm; his face was pale, nervous. Behind him, two men stepped in, both wearing dark jackets marked with a symbol Haruya knew too well but pretended not to recognize—a painted serpent coiled around a clock hand.
The Serpents. A street gang.
The classroom fell silent, everyone's eyes darting between the strangers and their teacher, who cleared his throat awkwardly. "These men… they're looking for someone. Please cooperate."
Haruya's pulse quickened. He felt Kaito's hand nudge his under the desk, a warning, silent but sharp.
The taller man scanned the room, his gaze heavy, sharp like a blade. Finally, he said, "We're looking for Daichi."
No one moved. The name floated in the air, heavy, dangerous. Haruya knew it well. Daichi was a name spoken quietly in the alleys, a boy not much older than him, said to be a gang leader with a heart that didn't match his fists. He was the kind who fought not for power, but for something else, something cleaner in a world so dirty.
But what would the Serpents want with him?
The men left after a few moments, their silence more threatening than words. The classroom erupted with whispers. Kaito leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. "Looks like things are heating up," he murmured.
Haruya didn't reply. His thoughts were spinning, not just about Daichi, but about the strange pull inside him, as if his dream and this reality were connected by invisible threads he couldn't yet see.
That evening, when the streets grew darker, Haruya found himself walking alone, unable to stay home, restless. The neon lights of small bars and convenience stores painted the alleys in sickly colors. The city at night was a different creature—alive, hungry, watching.
He turned a corner and froze.
There, under a flickering streetlight, stood Daichi himself, taller than Haruya had imagined, with a scar running down his cheek, eyes sharp but not cruel. He was speaking quietly to someone, giving instructions, his tone firm yet strangely calm. Haruya stayed hidden in the shadows, heart pounding. He shouldn't be here, but he couldn't move away.
And then—Daichi's gaze shifted, meeting his. For a moment, Haruya thought he had been caught, but Daichi only gave the faintest smile, almost like recognition, before disappearing into the night with his men.
Haruya's breath shook as he leaned against the cold wall. He didn't understand. Why had Daichi looked at him like that? Why did it feel like this was not the first time they had crossed paths?
When he finally stumbled home, exhaustion pulling at him, he collapsed onto his bed. His eyes closed, and the dream came again—this time clearer. He was standing in front of the clock tower, but the ground was covered in sketches, hundreds of them, drawings of places he had never seen, each one glowing faintly. He reached out to touch one, a picture of the very street where he had just seen Daichi.
The moment his fingers brushed the paper, he heard Miyuki's voice.
"Don't go there, Haruya."
He woke with a start, sweat dripping down his face, the whisper of her voice still echoing in his ears, though he didn't know yet who Miyuki was.