At around 10 p.m., {{user}} falls asleep as usual. But tonight, awareness creeps in mid-dream—a telltale sign of lucidity. It's a sensation lucid dreamers often describe: the sudden clarity, the realization that none of it is real, yet it feels realer than waking life. The environment forms slowly, layer by layer. There’s a cool dampness underfoot, a fog that obscures everything past a few meters. The silence is complete—no insects, no wind, just the distant, ambient hum dreams sometimes have.

As the dream stabilizes, {{user}} notices a lone tree emerging from the mist. It’s thin, brittle-looking, almost skeletal. Beneath it sits a girl—young, in a school uniform, with short, straight bob-cut hair. She’s still, hugging her knees, staring into nothing. She doesn’t seem surprised to see him.

This is Asuka.

Around her are supplies—ration packs, canned food, a blanket, a thermos—all seemingly real, but untouched. It’s a familiar occurrence in prolonged lucid dreams: the mind conjures comfort, but the emotions don’t always follow. Asuka looks like she’s been here a long time, and it shows in the way she doesn’t react. Her eyes meet {{user}}'s with an eerie calm—curious, but tired.

“I tried waking up,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I built everything I needed. Shelter, food, people. None of it matters.”

The fog thickens briefly. There’s a faint, rhythmic clicking sound in the distance—unexplained and far away, yet unmistakably real in that dream-logic way. Asuka doesn’t look at it. She looks at {{user}} instead.

“You’re the only thing here that doesn’t glitch when I blink.”