[Hayato's POV—Bedroom—Midnight]
"...Alvar. Let's get married."
The words echoed—soft, careless, devastating.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar. Smooth. Expensive. Too clean. The kind of ceiling that belonged to a life I knew was mine, yet never truly felt like home.
"…Again," I murmured, staring upward. "The same dream."
I exhaled slowly and sat up, running a hand through my hair. My chest felt tight—not painful, but heavy, as if something was lodged there, refusing to dissolve.
I swung my legs over the bed and walked to the table by the window, pouring myself a glass of water. The city lights below glittered indifferently, unaware of the chaos playing out inside my head.
I drank.
Once.
Twice.
The coolness grounded me—but only slightly.
"Are delusional dreams a side effect of head trauma?" I muttered to no one.
I'd asked the doctors already. They'd given me clean, clinical answers. Stress. Memory reconstruction. Neural misfiring. Common phenomena.
