The seventh time I dreamed of the elevator crashing, my new coworker died in the dream.
The next day, she was standing by the elevator for real.
The moment I grabbed her, the elevator plummeted with a thunderous crash.
“So you really can see,” she said with a smile, wiping the blood from the corner of her mouth.
A mysterious organization called the Dreamweavers began hunting me, claiming my dreams were tearing reality apart.
On a stormy night, I fled into an old apartment building plastered with talismans.
A familiar voice called from the top-floor room. It belonged to my friend, who had been dead for ten years.
His chest gaped open. Inside, there was no heart, only a swirling nebula.
“Chen Mo, welcome to the other side of reality.”
