Oliver sucked in a breath, feeling the weight of solid ground beneath him. The sensation of falling was gone, replaced by the familiar texture of a chair's cushion pressing against his back. His fingers twitched, brushing against the polished wooden armrest, and his mind struggled to bridge the impossible gap between the dreamlike descent and his sudden, abrupt return to reality.
The office was unchanged. Neat, composed, the scent of paper and faint perfume lingering in the air.
And so was she.
The woman sitting across from him—no longer Morgana, no longer draped in violet authority—was someone else entirely. Her features were sharper now, refined into an elegant mask of professionalism. Straight black hair, neatly pinned. A crisp, dark blazer over a high-collared blouse. The golden nameplate on her desk gleamed under the soft overhead light.
Aihara-sensei.
The new principal of Hoshizuki Academy.
She looked up, her gaze steady and unreadable.
"Welcome back, Oliver-kun," she said softly, voice cultured and composed.
But he knew.
His breath caught, not from confusion—but clarity. A deep, instinctive certainty flared in his chest, a signal passed not by logic, but by the mark still pulsing faintly over his heart. The sigil knew her, even beneath this mask. Beneath the tidy blazer and the polite façade, it whispered her name into his bones.
Morgana.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared.
Aihara-sensei's smile lingered, patient, as if waiting for him to catch up. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, folding one leg over the other with practiced ease.
She watched him closely, eyes narrowing just a fraction—not unkindly, but with perceptive intent. Reading him like a book she already knew the ending to. And when she spoke again, it was in quiet response—not to words, but to expression.
"You're wondering why the mask," she said. "Why the difference. Why hide."
Oliver swallowed. The room felt smaller now. Not threatening, exactly. But not safe either.
Her head tilted, and for a brief moment, something shifted in her eyes—not violet now, not overtly—but deep. Ancient. As if something older than this world stirred beneath the dark irises.
"Because roles matter," she said simply. "Morgana is merely a name. A figment. One that draws attention. Suspicion. Fear. But Aihara-sensei? She can move through this world without stirring the water. She can shape futures, speak to authorities, sign documents, guide students. She's the hand beneath the veil."
A pause. Then, she added, "And because the dream must wear a face, Oliver-kun. If I am to guide the Threadcutters, I must remain within reach."
She reached into a drawer, pulled out a small iron key with a circular red seal embedded in its handle. With a casual flick, she slid it across the table toward him.
"This will allow you access to the east wing's archives during off-hours," she said. "Room 313. For now, it holds the surface-level material. Just enough to get your bearings."
Oliver stared at the key. His fingers twitched, then slowly reached out and took it.
"Am I… supposed to pretend nothing happened?" he asked.
Aihara-sensei's smile returned—gentle this time, with just a hint of amusement.
"Not at all," she said. "You're part of something now. That doesn't mean you must announce it from rooftops." Her gaze held his, steady. "You'll go back to class. You'll do your work. Talk to your friends. Live. But when you're ready—truly ready—you'll find your way back to me."
She stood with smooth grace, walking to the side of her office where a tall window overlooked the courtyard. The sakura trees were beginning to bloom again, petals drifting like whispers across the stone paths.
"If you need to speak to me," she added, her voice a little softer now, "about anything—whether dream, figment, or fear—you may come to my office. The door will open. No need to knock."
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at him from over her shoulder.
"We're all dreamers here, in the end. Some just wake up sooner than others."
And just like that, she faced forward again, silent, hands folded behind her back.
Dismissed, without being dismissed.
Oliver stood. The key felt heavy in his palm.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't say goodbye.
He just opened the door—and stepped back into the hallway, the hum of school life washing over him like static. Laughter, footsteps, the distant clang of a vending machine.
But the mark on his chest still pulsed, faint and steady, like a second heartbeat.
"What a fuckin' two days," he said with a smile on his face. Though his life had taken a strange turn, it had gotten a hundred times more exciting.
"Maybe I'll give that manga Akari wanted to show me a read," he murmured to himself, fishing a talisman out from his blazer and slipping it into his pants pocket. He couldn't activate it—his Qi was still below zero—and the fact that he only had three talismans left meant one thing: he hadn't been trapped in some mental space or under hypnosis.
This was becoming interesting~
—
Time passed.
I returned to class after a quick stop at the restroom and resumed my normal school life—pretending to pay attention, making good on my promise to go with Akari to the waterpark in Japan, and giving that manga she had a read.
I instantly regretted it.
The first panel alone was enough to get you put on a list, even with Japan's age of consent.
So I did the most responsible thing: tore it to shreds, and continued with my day. Had a quick lunch, and planned to have a smoke with Kenji and his group, but apparently, Kazu hadn't shown up to school.
So I smoked some of my remaining weed, tried regaining a bit of my Qi. It wasn't much—because I ended up sharing the blunt with the others.
—
On the wire-net-covered roof of Hoshizuki High School, a group of male students lounged in a loose circle, lazily passing a joint between them. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rooftop, its warmth tempered by the occasional gust of wind that carried wisps of smoke into the open sky.
Should I sell that hanfu? I bet it'd be worth something.
These were his thoughts as he leaned against the wire-net railing on the school roof, watching the joint being passed around.
"Alright, I'm heading out," he said, slinging his school bag over his shoulder.
But just as he turned to leave, the door to the roof began to open.
"Shit, throw it away," one of the students around Oliver hissed as the rooftop door creaked open.
Kenji silenced him with a sharp glare, and the group straightened up, falling into the silent protocol every smoker at Hoshizuki Academy knew by heart. Most tilted their heads down, obscuring their faces in case it was a teacher. If it turned out to be a student, they'd just wave them off and keep puffing. But if it was faculty—run, and run fast.
Everyone was tense, ready to scatter.
Everyone except Oliver—and the new guy who'd joined their group just yesterday.
But as the door opened, something stirred in Oliver's chest. A strange familiarity, like déjà vu but deeper. It was the same feeling he'd had in the principal's office, the moment he'd known who she truly was.
Only this time… he had no idea who this was.
The door eased open fully.
She stepped through casually, hands in the front pocket of her oversized pink hoodie, the hood still pulled over her head. Baggy jeans, scuffed shoes. A lock of curly, pastel-black hair spilled out, falling to one side of her face.
She looked like she'd just woken up from a three-day nap.
"Wow, you guys are smoking without me? And here I was, dragging myself out of bed just to help you chase that high," she said, grinning sleepily.
Something clicked.
Like a switch thrown in the dark, every single person on the rooftop felt it.
"Rika?" Kenji blurted, eyes wide.
"No, that's Ayane," someone else muttered.
"Wait—Isn't that Arisa?" said another, scratching his head.
Oliver stared.
He didn't say a name.
Because he knew—knew in the same way he'd known about Morgana—that none of those names were right.
She stepped into the circle like smoke slipping through cracks—effortless, untouchable. Her eyes flicked across each guy, lazy and unreadable, the kind of look that made people nervous without knowing why. The same new guy who'd tried to act cool earlier gave a little half-bow when she passed him. She smiled at him, teeth just barely showing.
"You seem fun," she said, patting his shoulder in passing. Then she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a little ziplock bag.
The entire group leaned forward.
No one said a word, but you could hear the tension shift. Half of them thought she was about to bribe into doing something for her, the other half were just hoping whatever was in the bag was potent.
With a flourish that felt more stage magician than stoner, she held it up between two fingers and let it catch the sunlight.
"You guys've been so welcoming," she said sweetly, "so here. A little gift."
She tossed the bag to the new guy. He fumbled it, caught it with both hands, then stared down into it like he wasn't sure if he should be grateful or terrified.
Inside wasn't weed.
It was dried petals. Crushed red and violet leaves, twigs with curling black veins, and what looked suspiciously like a single, curved claw. It smelled faintly floral—until it didn't. A second later, the scent shifted, becoming sharp, metallic, something like ozone or burned hair.
Everyone flinched back at once.
Except Oliver.
She leaned down and wrapped her arm loosely around his. "Now, if you don't mind," she purred, "I need to borrow this hunk of meat for a second."
Oliver blinked. "Uh—"
"Won't be long," she added cheerfully, dragging him up to his feet with surprising strength for someone who looked like they hadn't eaten in three days. "Just a quick little walk-and-talk."
The guys watched them in silent awe, a mix of curiosity and unease flickering in their eyes. No one dared to speak, the air thick with tension. Even Kenji remained quiet, his gaze shifting between the odd bag—now looking like weed again—and Oliver. His hand moved almost instinctively, reaching for the bag, as if the strange transformation of its contents had never even happened.
"You good?" one of them finally asked, voice quiet.
Oliver didn't answer.
But then, as if his mind had finally grasped the cadence of her voice, the lazy rhythm of her walk, the way her eyes flicked with a slight perverted—something clicked. It wasn't conscious. It wasn't logical.
It was instinct.
"Akari?" he blurted, blinking at her.
She paused mid-step, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Aww, you figured it out," she teased, sticking her tongue out in mock innocence. "Not, you were close though, name's Aiko, Aiko Fujimoto." She glanced at him with a glint of mischief in her eyes, her arm still comfortably interlocked with his.
"But you can call me Ai-chan~," she said, her voice teasing with a hint of frustration. "Aihara-sensei's a pain, you know?"
"Like, seriously a huge one," she said, pulling two bus tickets from her hoodie pocket. "Aihara-sensei assigned me the task of tracking down a tricky figment in Tokyo, and it's been driving me insane. So, I came back hoping to find someone to join me on this wild goose chase. But, surprise surprise, she told me to find you instead. Apparently, it's best for you to witness a figment firsthand or whatever... so, I guess we're stuck together for a while~"
She tugged him along with her, leading him toward the rooftop exit door. The sun caught in her hair as they walked, casting a strange violet sheen across her bangs. Her fingers, warm and firm, remained loosely looped around his arm. Oliver didn't resist. He could've, sure—but something about the way she moved, the casual confidence, the unsettling edge to her cheerfulness, made resistance feel… unwise.
Just as they reached the door, she paused.
"Oh, right," she said, releasing his arm and reaching back into her hoodie pocket with both hands. "Almost forgot—Aihara-sensei told me to give you these."
She pulled out something wrapped in a thin, dark silk cloth. With a flick of her wrist, the fabric unfurled, revealing a pair of violet-colored scissors—gleaming and elegant, with strange runes etched along the blades in fine silver ink. They looked ceremonial. Ancient. Dangerous.
She handed them to him without ceremony.
"Here," she said. "Now you're officially a part of the Threadcutters. Hope you love getting your hands bloodied~"
Oliver took them gingerly. The metal was cold. Colder than steel had any right to be, and heavier too—like they carried weight beyond the physical. His fingers trembled as they closed around the handle, and in that instant, the scissors pulsed faintly, once. As if alive.
As if they recognized him.
He stared at them in silence, mind already racing through the implications.
"Don't worry," Aiko said with a grin, opening the door and stepping into the stairwell. "You'll get used to it. Probably."
She didn't wait for him to follow.
He hesitated, eyes lingering on the runes that shimmered faintly in the low light of the hallway.
Then he slipped the scissors into the inner pocket of his jacket and stepped through the door after her.
The air beyond the rooftop was different. Heavier. Like he'd crossed an invisible threshold.
And something told him there was no turning back now.