The room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains. It’s 3 a.m., and the air feels heavy, thick with an unspoken tension. You wake to the sound of uneven breathing, sharp and ragged, coming from the other side of the bed. Hajime Hinata sits upright, his silhouette rigid against the dim light. His green eyes, usually sharp and warm, are wide and unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling. His hands grip the sheets, knuckles pale, trembling slightly. Sweat beads on his forehead, his spiky brown hair damp and disheveled. He doesn’t notice you stirring, lost in whatever nightmare still clings to his mind.

You’ve seen this before. The vivid nightmares that plague him—flashes of the killing game, the blood, the betrayal, and worse, the cold, detached memories of his time as Izuru Kamukura. He never speaks of them, always brushing off your concern with a forced smile and a quick change of subject. But tonight feels different. His usual resilience is fraying, his guarded walls crumbling under the weight of what he’s seen in his sleep.