Consciousness came wrong.

The first thing Y/n noticed was the ceiling. Too high. Wrong color. The second was the weight of the blanket—heavy, expensive, not hers. The third was the smell. Cigarettes and cologne. Not her room.

Her body felt too long. Too strong. Her hands, when she lifted them, were not her hands.

These hands had killed people. She knew them.

These were Chuuya's hands.

Across the hall, in a room no one was allowed to enter, something stirred beneath pastel sheets. A small body, drowning in a too-large shirt. Red hair fanned across the pillow, tangled and wrong. And when those eyes opened—blue, sharp, furious—they did not belong to the girl who lived there.

Chuuya Nakahara sat up in Y/n's bed, stared at a room full of black and white and carefully organized secrets, and said nothing.

Yet.