Hiro adjusted the strap of his backpack, feeling the weight of textbooks dig into his shoulder as he crossed the school gates. The late afternoon sun slanted low, stretching shadows across the pavement like long fingers grasping at ankles. He didn’t hurry—his pace was deliberate, slow, the kind of walk that made it clear he wasn’t eager to get home.

  Behind him, the murmur of other students ebbed and flowed, laughter and chatter dissolving into the background like radio static. Then, a shift—a presence threading through the crowd, neither loud nor intrusive, but *there*. He glanced over his shoulder, just once, and caught a glimpse of Yamiko three paces back, her head ducked slightly as if studying the cracks in the sidewalk. She wasn’t walking *with* anyone. Just… following.

  Hiro had barely registered the soft scuff of sneakers against pavement when Yamiko was suddenly beside him, her stride matching his own. She didn’t look at him—not at first. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as if anchoring herself against the sheer audacity of what she was doing.

  “You—uh.” Her voice was quieter than he expected, barely above a whisper. “You always walk home this way, right?”

  Hiro’s breath hitched. Yamiko *always* took the south gate after school, cutting through the park to reach her apartment complex—he’d seen her do it every day for months. This route was his alone. The realization slithered into his gut like ice.

  Her fingers twitched at her side, too stiff, too deliberate. When she finally turned to face him, her smile didn’t reach her eyes. They were flat. Empty. Like painted glass. "You don’t look surprised," she said, and her voice was wrong—too smooth, syllables stretching just a fraction too long.

  Hiro swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper. His pulse hammered against his ribs so hard he wondered if she could hear it. "Who are you?" he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips.

  Yamiko tilted her head—just slightly, like a bird considering prey. Her grin widened, but it wasn’t Yamiko’s grin anymore. Too many teeth. Too sharp. "Oh, I think you know," she murmured, her voice dipping into something darker, rougher. The cadence of it scraped against his eardrums, wrong in a way that made his skin prickle.

  Hiro didn’t wait for another word—he bolted. His sneakers slapped against the pavement, the sound sharp and frantic as he wove through the thinning crowd of students. The straps of his backpack dug into his shoulders, bouncing with each stride, but he barely noticed. His lungs burned, his pulse roared in his ears, and one thought looped in his mind: *That wasn’t Yamiko.*

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  The thing wearing Yamiko’s face didn’t chase him—not right away. He heard her laugh, a sound like glass breaking, before footsteps followed, unhurried, almost lazy. "You can’t run forever," her voice called, too cheerful, too close. Hiro didn’t look back. He ducked into an alley, skidding around a dumpster, heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

  The alley walls closed in like the jaws of a trap, brick and concrete pressing tight against Hiro’s heaving shoulders. He spun, chest burning, only to freeze—the thing wearing Yamiko’s face stood at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the fading daylight. It took a step forward, then another, its gait too smooth, too effortless, like a puppet dragged by invisible strings. The smile never left its face.

  Hiro’s back hit the wall. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, the familiar prickle of something unnatural crawling up his wrists—but fear choked it down before it could take shape. The imposter tilted its head, eyes glinting with something ancient and hungry. "You’re tired," it murmured, Yamiko’s voice stretched thin over something jagged. "Don’t you want to rest?"

  Hiro’s lungs burned, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pressed himself against the alley’s grimy brick wall. The thing wearing Yamiko’s face stepped closer, slow, deliberate strides, its smile never wavering. Shadows pooled around its feet like spilled ink, stretching unnaturally long in the fading light.

  Then—movement. A blur of motion from the alley’s entrance, a flash of familiar blue fabric.Yamiko lunged forward, her face twisted in fierce determination. Before the imposter could react, she thrust her palm outward, fingers splayed. A pulse of golden light erupted from her hand, crackling through the air like static. The imposter’s form flickered—distorted—then shattered into wisps of black smoke, dissipating with a sound like shattering glass.

  Hiro’s thumb dug into the raised flesh of his forearm, pressing so hard the triangular mark turned bone-white under the pressure. His breath came in jagged bursts, his pulse a frantic drum against his ribs. The alley air tasted like rust and old brick dust, thick enough to choke on. He barely registered Yamiko stepping closer—her movements cautious, deliberate—until her shadow pooled over his sneakers.

  "You’re okay," she murmured, her voice softer now, familiar. The real Yamiko. Her fingers hovered near his wrist, not touching, just waiting. "It’s gone. For now."

  Hiro's vision swam—colors bleeding into each other like wet paint dragged across a canvas. The alley walls tilted, then folded inward, collapsing around him in slow motion. He barely registered Yamiko's sharp inhale before the world dissolved into static. His knees buckled. The last thing he felt was the cold press of pavement against his cheek.

  He woke to the scent of vanilla and something floral—soft, faintly sweet. The ceiling above him was pale pink, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars stuck haphazardly in constellations he didn’t recognize. A stuffed rabbit with one ear half-sewn back on slumped against the pillow beside his head. Hiro blinked, his brain sluggish, fingers twitching against sheets patterned with tiny strawberries.