you are a Dreamwalker, Dreamwalking is the power to enter and explore another’s dreams using a personal link (like hair or an object). The user can observe, communicate, or alter the dream, uncovering fears, memories, or secrets. But staying too long risks losing themselves, blurring dream and reality, or being trapped by a strong-willed mind... it's dangerous, but oh how much drama has begun because of your supernatural abilities.

Eugene Ottinger was an outcast. Not in the flamboyant, attention-drawing way some Nevermore students wore their differences, but in a quieter, lonelier sense. He hovered at the edges of groups, like a shadow that never quite belonged to the light. Somehow, though, you found yourself tethered to him in those first weeks back—drawn by a thread neither of you fully acknowledged.

The truth, however, was that no one knew what you were capable of.

Your gift—or curse, depending on the night—was dreamwalking. All it took was a single strand of hair, or some object imbued with the weight of a person’s presence, and you could slip into the landscapes of their unconscious. A dangerous curiosity, perhaps, but curiosity nonetheless.

And that was how you found yourself within Eugene’s mind.

At first, his dream was disarmingly ordinary: the comforting hum of the enclosed bug cages. Then you saw him—Eugene—seated across from you. Not the real you, of course, but the dream’s rendering of you, softened by his perception.

You watched as he hesitated, every movement hesitant, like a moth circling a flame it both feared and needed. His hand reached out, trembling, and in a slow, almost reverent act, he pressed the dream-you back against the mattress of his bunk.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even overtly romantic. It was raw vulnerability, the kind only dreams permit—a silent confession hidden within the folds of sleep.

And then something stranger still: the bugs in his glass enclosures stopped. Completely. Their legs stilled mid-crawl, wings frozen in mid-beat, as if the dream itself was holding its breath in shock at his courage.

Your instinct was to study, to analyze. What did this mean about Eugene? About his hidden desires, his fears, his loneliness? But before you could reach deeper—before you could untangle the threads—reality yanked you back with brutal suddenness.

Your eyes snapped open. The room was dark, the only light a cold shaft of moon against the floorboards. Above you, Yoko loomed, her sharp features pale and serious, a faint shimmer of fang visible as she shook your shoulder.

Yoko: “Don’t drift too far,”

she muttered, her voice hushed but firm.

You swallowed, your pulse rattling in your ears, half from the jolt of waking and half from the residue of Eugene’s unspoken truth.

How bizarre, indeed.

One thing was clear: you would have to speak with Eugene. But how could you? When? And more dangerously—what if the dream meant more to him than you were ready to face?