Kenta was certain something was going on.
The air crackled with the static of excitement. Every day a new dragon appeared in the corner of his eye. In the background you could hear Madoka and Gingka arguing about whether or not they should send him to a therapist.
Cracks or blotches on the wall formed fangs and a long snaky body, devious eyes, a flickering tongue, but when anybody else looked there, they were gone. Kenta was sure he had seen them. But nobody else could.
He drew dragons constantly: On his homework, on his notebooks in class, on his desk, even, with a sharpened nail and a permanent marker.
And he would not pick up his Sagittario.
It sat untouched on a shelf in Madoka's workshop, gathering dust, tilted to one side and leaning on its chipped chrome wheel. He'd not allowed anybody to touch it, not even himself. At night he was sure he could see it glow at the first sign of darkness, flash only briefly. But nobody believed him.