The Dreamer Registration office operated out of an old building, with narrow corridors and plastic chairs creaking under the weight of waiting bodies. The air smelled of yellowed paper and reheated coffee. Before Street 9, the lines there were short and quiet: people updating records, requesting reports, complaining about fees. Bureaucracy. Routine.
After Street 9, the place felt like a police precinct on the day of a tragedy.
Outside, two groups faced each other, separated by barricades and police officers. On one side, hastily made signs, warped cardboard and shouted letters:
"PROTECT OUR STREETS"
"DREAMERS UNDER CONTROL"
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE IN MY SLEEP"
On the other, a smaller group, pressed against the wall, their signs more organized, their words carefully chosen:
"DREAMER IS NOT A WEAPON"
"NO TO WITCH HUNTS"
"ECHO IS NOT A CRIME"
The police kept the two sides apart as if separating fire from gasoline. Even so, sparks flew.
A young woman, badge hanging from her neck, tried to slip through the side gate. A man recognized her and raised his voice, too loud to be mistaken for a question.
— You're a Dreamer, right?
She stopped.
— I… I'm registered — she answered, trying to keep walking.
— Registered. — He spat the word. — So you're the one who makes this happen?
— I didn't do anything! — her voice shook. — I work, I pay taxes, I—
— You dream. — He cut her off, like presenting evidence. — And now streets disappear and people die.
The police intervened before the crowd surged. Even so, the damage was already done. The woman entered with her head down, shoulders hunched, like someone being beaten without a hand ever touching her.
Inside the building, a small television broadcast a government press conference. A DAO spokesperson spoke with a tense face and carefully sterilized sentences.
"There is no evidence of direct responsibility by individual Dreamers."
"We are investigating the conditions that led to the temporary disappearance of Street 9."
"We ask the population to avoid rumors."
"Echoes are phenomena of low materiality."
The last sentence drew murmurs.
— Low materiality? — someone muttered. — My sister crashed her car yesterday swerving from a ghost woman.
No one laughed.
— Number 118 — the clerk called.
A guy in a hoodie stood up. He sat at the counter and slid his documents forward.
— I… I need to update my address.
— Reason? — the clerk asked, without looking up.
The guy hesitated.
— I'm receiving threats.
She looked at him. Not with pity. With recognition.
— Dreamer level…?
— Two.
Level Two. Low. Small Echoes: shadows, noises, smells out of place. Nothing that justified the hatred outside.
— New address? — she asked, already typing.
When she confirmed it, the screen flashed:
ALERT: STREET 9 PROTOCOL – MONITORING
The guy went pale.
— What is that?
— Administrative routine — she replied, already calling the next number.
He didn't believe her. But he swallowed it. Bureaucracy doesn't argue. It records.
On his way out, an older woman from the pro-control group shouted:
— GO BACK TO YOUR DREAM! GET OUT OF HERE!
He picked up his pace without looking back.
The entire city seemed to be moving in two opposite directions. Those who could afford it bought suppressors. Those who couldn't bought excuses not to sleep. Gyms advertised "insomnia programs." Cafés sold nighttime coffee by the liter. Pharmacies placed melatonin next to stimulants, as if the problem were just a switch.
By late afternoon, a short video took over social media. Shot from above, it showed the moment Street 9 reappeared: one second of normality, then people running, a distant scream, the camera shaking.
The caption read: "IT CAME BACK WITH DEATH."
In the comments, the replies fought each other.
"Punishment."
"Experiment."
"Government."
"Dreamer."
And someone wrote, almost lost between likes:
"This is a hunt."
The word wasn't official. There was no proof. But it was the word that emerged when you saw wounds without animals, violence without chance, blood too organized to be an accident.
Somewhere far from the screens, an old radio crackled inside a modest house.
"Authorities recommend avoiding sleep without supervision. Pharmacies report shortages of suppressors. Experts warn: panic increases the occurrence of Echoes."
A hand turned off the radio with a dry click.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees as if the world were still old and simple. But the city had already learned to fear its own bed.
And that fear — the fear of closing your eyes — wasn't just a reaction.
It was the beginning of a new economy.
Of a new persecution.
And, for some, of a new kind of power.