Oliver's journey home was uneventful at first, the chill of the night brushing against his skin as he walked through the dimly lit streets. The distant hum of Yoruichi Ward barely reached the more secluded neighborhood of Hoshizakura. He tugged his blazer tighter around himself, his thoughts lingering on the events of the night—Reina's warmth, Yuki's youthful body and timid gaze, and the subtle tension that refused to fade even now.
By the time he reached his doorstep, he could already tell the house was quiet. As expected, his mother was still at the hospital, working her night shift. His stepfather was somewhere across the globe, handling whatever business venture had taken him away this time. The house was dark except for the faint glow from a single room upstairs—Yumi's.
Digging into his bag, he pulled out his pair of house keys, fitting them into the lock with a soft click. The familiar scent of home greeted him—faint traces of incense his mother liked to burn, the lingering aroma of dinner long since eaten, and the almost imperceptible scent of Yumi's presence.
He toed off his shoes and walked into the living room, slinging his bag onto the couch. The moment he did, he heard soft footsteps descending the stairs.
Yumi appeared at the top, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders, illuminated only by the hallway light behind her. She wore an oversized hoodie—one that looked suspiciously like it had once belonged to him—and a pair of shorts that barely peeked out from beneath it.
She stopped halfway down, her gaze locking onto his.
"…You're home late," she said softly.
Oliver exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Got caught up with some things."
Yumi's fingers tightened slightly around the wooden railing, her expression unreadable. "I see."
An awkward silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
He didn't know what she had seen. Didn't know if she had pieced everything together. But the way she was looking at him now—calm, yet with something stirring beneath the surface—made him feel strangely exposed.
"You should be sleeping," he muttered, breaking the silence.
Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead, she simply nodded. "Yeah… I just woke up for a bit."
Oliver wasn't sure if she meant she had woken up naturally—or if something else had disturbed her.
She hesitated, then turned to head back upstairs. But just as she reached the top, Oliver spoke.
"Hey… Yumi, do you want to hang out for a bit? Since you're up anyway, why don't we take a walk to the convenience store? Get some ice cream or something?"
Yumi paused. Her grip on the railing slackened, then tightened again. She didn't turn back.
"Not tonight," she murmured.
There was something almost deliberate in the way she said it. A lingering weight in her words.
Oliver watched her disappear down the hallway, the soft sound of her door clicking shut behind her.
Only then did he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Something had shifted.
And he wasn't sure if he was ready for what came next.
The house felt different now, the silence pressing in on him. The faint ticking of the wall clock filled the empty space Yumi had left behind.
Oliver ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly.
Maybe he was overthinking it.
Shaking off the thought, he made his way to the kitchen. His fingers traced the cool edge of the counter as he pulled open the fridge, grabbing a bottled drink. The condensation against his skin grounded him. Twisting off the cap, he took a slow sip, letting the cold liquid wash away the dryness in his throat.
Then, he felt it again.
That prickling sensation.
Like a pair of eyes on him.
Slowly, he turned toward the staircase. The hallway light still cast long shadows up the stairs, but Yumi's door remained shut.
Maybe it was just in his head.
Scoffing at himself, he took another sip before pushing off the counter. His hands instinctively went to his pockets, feeling for something.
The sample Kazu had given him.
He had almost forgotten about it.
Might as well, he thought.
Moving toward the living room, he slung his bag over his shoulder again, then went to the kitchen drawer, pulling out a box of matches. He slid open the glass door to the backyard, stepping outside into the crisp night air.
The small garden was still. The wind rustled the leaves, and beyond the wooden fence, the neighborhood lay in silence.
Oliver sat down on the stone steps leading into the yard, pulling out the small ziplock bag. The scent hit him immediately—strong, skunky, unmistakable. The buds were dense and slightly sticky, a deep green with hints of orange hairs and a dusting of trichomes that shimmered under the dim light.
He placed the bag to the side and reached into his school bag, searching for something to roll with. After a few seconds of rummaging, his fingers brushed against something odd—a small brown notebook.
…What?
He didn't remember putting this in his bag.
Frowning, he pulled it out, flipping it open.
The first thing he saw was a strange pattern—a three-colored symbol consisting of three layers. But what made his breath catch was the writing on the adjacent page.
His own handwriting.
And then—before he could process it—the words vanished.
Oliver's heart pounded. He had read it. Just for a second, but he had *read* it. A journal entry. Something about his dream. About Fang Lee.
The page was blank now, but he knew what he had seen.
Slowly, he flipped through the pages, searching for any other markings. Nothing. He closed and reopened the notebook. Still blank.
His fingers tightened around the cover.
Was he seeing things?
A flicker of unease crept up his spine, but he forced it down. After everything that had happened, this barely even registered as strange. He simply filed it away in the growing list of things he didn't understand yet.
His theory about his cultivation—about how he could cultivate—just gained another piece.
But for now, he let the thought rest.
Tearing a page from the notebook, he smoothed his fingers over it. Thin. Just the right consistency for what he needed.
He got to work.
Rolling a small filter from a stiff scrap of paper, he packed the ground weed onto the torn page. His fingers worked carefully, shaping the joint with slow, practiced motions. He licked the edge, sealed it, and twisted the tip shut.
Perfect.
Striking a match, he watched as the small flame flared to life, flickering against the night.
Oliver held the joint to his lips, inhaling deeply.
The familiar burn settled in his chest.
And as the smoke curled into the night air, the unease from earlier slowly faded away.
For now.
—
That's a great setup for a supernatural hospital subplot. Here's how it plays out:
---
(Yoake District, Hinagiku Ward. Hinagiku General Hospital.)
The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the halls. Dr. Aoyama Minako exhaled as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. It had been a long night—too many patients, not enough staff, and an endless stream of paperwork that refused to shrink.
But something about tonight felt off.
It wasn't just exhaustion. There was a lingering tension in the air, an inexplicable heaviness pressing against her senses.
She dismissed the feeling, flipping through a patient chart as she made her way toward the pediatric ward. Room 308. A boy named Kaito Sakamura—13 years old, admitted two days ago after collapsing from exhaustion and fever. No underlying conditions, yet his body temperature fluctuated wildly, and his sleep cycles had been erratic.
The nurses said he had been obsessed with dreams lately. Talking about them nonstop.
When Minako stepped into the room, she saw him sitting up in bed, completely absorbed in his notebook. The overhead light cast sharp shadows over his delicate features, his black hair slightly damp with sweat. He didn't notice her at first—his attention was entirely on the pages in front of him.
She took a step closer. That was when she saw it.
The pages of his notebook were covered in intricate symbols drawn in different colors—red, green, and blue—each forming part of a larger, incomplete image. The ink had bled slightly into the paper, but the careful precision of the lines suggested a ritualistic design.
Kaito moved with practiced intent, gluing the red-inked section onto another page. Beneath it, Minako caught a glimpse of faint, deliberate characters written beneath the images.
生 (Life).
He pressed the page down firmly, smoothing out any wrinkles before reaching for another—a half-drawn design in green ink. He placed it carefully over the first, then dipped his pen and wrote another kanji on it.
死 (Death).
Minako felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck.
Finally, Kaito lifted a third, this one seemed even more translucent then the previous two, this one drawn in blue ink. He carefully placed it on top of the previous two, sealing them together before writing a final word.
夢 (Dream).
Then, he straightened his back, pressing both palms against the notebook as if solidifying his work.
Under his breath, he began to chant:
"Life flows into death, death returns to dreams."
"The dream shapes the living, the living are born again."
"In sleep, the cycle turns. In waking, it is sealed."
His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. But there was something unsettling about the way he spoke—as if he wasn't reciting it for the first time.
Minako cleared her throat, breaking the silence.
"Kaito-kun, what are you up to?"
The boy startled slightly, looking up with a sheepish smile. "Oh, Dr. Aoyama! Sorry, I was just finishing something."
Minako stepped closer, glancing at the notebook. "A… ritual?"
He nodded eagerly, flipping back through the earlier pages to show her rough sketches. "Yeah! It's called a Dream Ritual. You have to stack the symbols in a certain way and say the chant before bed. It makes sure you have good dreams."
Minako raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "And where did you learn this?"
Kaito shrugged. "It's just something kids talk about online. Some people say it works. I thought, why not try it?"
She sighed. The younger generation came up with new superstitions every few years—things that spread through forums or social media. A few years back, it was some nonsense about folding paper cranes to ward off nightmares. Now, apparently, kids were drawing dream rituals.
Still, he seemed happy enough, and there was no harm in letting him believe in it.
"Well," she said, checking her watch, "now that you've finished your ritual, it's time for your medicine."
Kaito pouted but took the small paper cup from her, swallowing the pills with a sip of water.
"Good," Minako said. "Now, lights out. You need rest."
Kaito grinned. "Thanks for letting me do it, Dr. Aoyama. And for not making fun of me."
She smiled slightly, ruffling his hair. "Just don't stay up all night making more rituals, okay?"
He laughed and nodded, placing the notebook carefully under his pillow. "Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight, Kaito."
She turned off the light, stepping out into the hallway. The hospital was quiet again, save for the soft beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses making their rounds.
Minako sighed, rolling her shoulders as she made her way back toward the nurse's station.
---
2:43 AM
The rhythmic beeping of monitors filled the hospital's nighttime hush. Most of the ward had settled into the stillness of deep sleep.
Then—
A long, piercing sound echoed through the halls.
A flatline.
Minako snapped her head up from her paperwork, her blood running cold.
Room 308.
She moved before her mind could fully register it, her steps quick and controlled as she rushed down the hall. A nurse had already thrown open the door, her voice sharp with urgency.
"He was fine just an hour ago!"
Minako pushed past her, eyes locking onto the heart monitor. The green line was flat. A single, unbroken tone filled the air.
Kaito lay perfectly still in his bed, his expression peaceful—too peaceful. The kind of stillness that didn't belong to sleep.
"Check his pulse!" Minako barked, her hands already moving to perform compressions.
The nurse pressed trembling fingers to the boy's wrist. Her face paled.
"No pulse."
Minako's breath hitched. What the hell?
He had been fine. Just fine. She had spoken to him, laughed with him. He had gone to bed like any other child.
A terrifying thought struck her. She reached under his pillow, fingers brushing against the notebook.
She pulled it out.
The page—the one with the completed ritual—was missing.
As if it had never been there to begin with.
And Kaito—who had believed so firmly in his Dream Ritual—had vanished into a dream from which he would never wake.