Sleep came reluctantly.
Cyrus lay on his back in the neutral-toned hotel room, staring at the ceiling while Divide City murmured below the window. The city never fully slept—not here. Even now, light pulsed faintly through the glass: bioluminescent pinks on one side, ember-red glows on the other.
Ditto rested across his chest, warm and still.
Gengar floated near the far wall, pretending not to watch the window.
"…Gengar," he muttered, uneasy.
"I know," Cyrus said softly. "Try anyway."
Eventually, exhaustion won.
It didn't feel like falling asleep.
It felt like sinking.
The Dream
Cyrus stood in Divide City.
But the city was wrong.
The dividing line down the center pulsed like a vein, glowing faintly as if something beneath the ground was breathing. The fairy-side trees drooped, their glowing leaves dimmed to sickly pastels. On the dark side, vines crawled higher up buildings than they should've been, pulsing red and yellow like exposed nerves.
No people.
No Pokémon.
Just the city… waiting.
Cyrus took a step forward, and the ground dipped beneath his feet, like a mattress sagging under unseen weight.
Pressure pressed down on his chest.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Expectation.
From somewhere far above, the sky darkened—not with clouds, but with shadow pooling like ink dropped into water.
Something moved in it.
Not descending.
Not attacking.
Just… turning.
Watching.
Cyrus tried to speak.
No sound came out.
A soft, distant giggle echoed—not mocking, not kind.
Playful.
Then the pressure spiked...
Cyrus jolted upright in bed, gasping.
Ditto slid off his chest and reformed immediately into a thumbs-down, surface rippling anxiously.
Gengar had already phased halfway through the wall, eyes wide.
"…Gengar!"
Cyrus swung his legs over the side of the bed. His heart hammered.
Outside, alarms hadn't gone off.
But the city felt… louder.
He crossed to the window.
Below, trainers stood in the plaza in nightclothes, some clutching Pokéballs that rattled faintly in their hands. A Clefairy cried softly near the fountain. On the shadow side, a Murkrow flock circled low, refusing to perch.
The line down the center of the city glowed.
Not bright.
Just enough to notice.
Cyrus's jaw tightened.
"That's not supposed to do that," he murmured.
A whisper drifted through the room, sing-song and distant, like it was echoing down a long hallway:
"Uh-oh~Dreams are leaaaaking~"
Cyrus didn't turn.
"Not funny," he said quietly.
A pause.
"…Didn't say it was~Nope I didn't~ ."
Cyrus grabbed his jacket.
Crossing the Line
He didn't take the elevator.
He took the stairs, slipping out into the plaza through a side exit, keeping his hood up. The city guards were busy calming civilians near the fountain—nobody noticed him move toward the boundary.
The line wasn't a wall.
It never had been.
Just a difference.
But at night, the difference thickened.
Cyrus stopped a meter from it.
On the fairy side, the air felt light but thin, like breathing at altitude. On the dark side, it felt heavy, damp, pressing faintly against his skin.
Ditto tightened around his neck.
"You don't have to come," Cyrus whispered.
Ditto stayed.
He stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the line, the world shifted.
Sound dulled, as if wrapped in fabric. Colors drained slightly, not disappearing but muting—like everything was being seen through smoked glass. The glow of the vines brightened in response, pulsing slowly.
Gengar drifted closer to him, unusually solid.
"…Gen."
"I know," Cyrus said. "Stay sharp."
The ground beneath his boots felt softer here. Not unstable—yielding.
Like packed earth over something hollow.
Cyrus crouched and pressed his palm to the stone.
The vibration was subtle.
Rhythmic.
Not footsteps.
A heartbeat.
He swallowed.
"Something's anchored here," he murmured. "Or passing through. Repeatedly."
The vines along a nearby wall twitched.
Not growing.
Reacting.
Cyrus stood slowly and looked upward.
The sky above the dark side wasn't empty.
It deepened.
Stars faded—not vanished, but hidden behind a veil of shadow that moved like slow breath. The moon...
Cyrus frowned.
He could see its light.
But not its shape.
A silhouette passed across the glow, too smooth, too intentional to be cloud cover.
Cyrus felt the pressure again.
Not crushing.
Focusing.
Like the city itself was being pulled into a single point.
"…You see that too, right?" he asked quietly.
Gengar nodded once.
A soft laugh rippled through the air—not close, not far.
"Careful, careful~Lines aren't fences~"
Cyrus straightened.
"If you didn't cause this," he said calmly, "then tell me this—does it end badly?"
A longer pause.
The city seemed to hold still.
Then, gently, almost honestly:
"Depends who wakes up fiiirst~."
The pressure eased.
Just a little.
Enough for Cyrus to breathe again.
He stepped back across the line.
The moment he did, sound rushed back in—distant voices, wind through leaves, the faint splash of the fountain.
The glow along the boundary dimmed.
But it didn't disappear.
Cyrus looked back once more.
"This city is dreaming," he said softly.
"And it's running out of something it needs."
Ditto shifted, forming a small, uncertain thumbs-down.
Above them, unseen, the sky continued to darken—slowly, patiently—as if waiting for night three.