The next day, the halls felt quieter—not emptier, just... muted. Like the school was holding its breath.
Kai sat in class but didn't hear a word.
Instead, his mind replayed Mr. Suda's words, over and over.
"You're useful—until you're not."
He started noticing things—people who didn't quite belong. A janitor who swept the same spot all morning. A student he'd never seen before, sitting two rows over, watching him too intently. A substitute teacher in Chemistry who didn't know how to unlock the storage cabinet.
Patterns.
Or paranoia?
At lunch, the intercom crackled.
"All students to the auditorium. Mandatory assembly."
Unusual. No reason given.
As Kai filed in with the others, he caught glimpses of faces he didn't recognize. Not students. Not teachers. Well-dressed, stone-faced observers in the back row. They didn't clap. Didn't blink.
Principal Mori took the stage, his voice even more rehearsed than usual.
"We are conducting a school-wide wellness review in collaboration with an educational institute dedicated to excellence and mental health."
The moment he said "institute," Kai felt his spine tighten.
"You'll be invited to participate in short one-on-one interviews. It's completely voluntary—though we encourage your cooperation."
Voluntary. Right.
Kai met one of the observers' eyes.
The man didn't look away.
That evening, Kai stayed late under the guise of helping in the library.
Instead, he snuck into the administrative wing.
Inside the vice principal's office, the computers were still logged in.
He searched through the files. Nothing unusual until he clicked a folder titled:
Evaluation Candidates
He scrolled.
Dozens of names.
Some students he vaguely recognized.
Some he didn't.
And one that made him stop breathing:
No. 03 — Hoshino, Emi
His classmate.
His friend.
The girl who had stopped talking to everyone a month ago. Who had gone from outspoken to hollow in a matter of days. Kai had chalked it up to burnout, or bullying.
But now… now it had context.
He downloaded the file to a flash drive.
As he left the office, he noticed something chilling:
The door hadn't been closed behind him.
And it was now slightly more open than when he came in.
Back home, Kai opened the file.
Most of it was clinical jargon.
Psychographic metrics. Behavior deviation charts. Cognitive mapping logs.
But some words stood out:
"Subject prone to emotional volatility. Projected break point within 4–6 weeks. Observation priority escalated."
"Potential cross-over candidate. Group A match pending."
What was "Group A"? Who decided what "break points" were?
He opened the next folder—one not labeled with a name, but a symbol:
A spiral, thin and almost invisible.
Inside: dozens of surveillance screenshots. Hallway cams. Cafeteria tables. Rooftop angles.
And in five of them—Kai was there. Alone.
The timestamps? All from before his first day at school.
He printed one of the photos.
Took it to school the next morning. Showed it to Emi.
She looked at it. Then at him. Then shoved it back into his hands, her face pale.
"Don't talk to me about this," she whispered, panicked. "Don't you get it? If they know you know... they rewrite you."
Kai opened his mouth to ask what that meant.
But Emi was already gone.
Later that day, her name disappeared from the attendance sheet.
Gone—like she was never there.