The First Thread Tightens
---
The classroom was silent.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Each student sat with the same folded slip of paper in front of them.
Sora watched as Yuto opened his first. His face paled instantly. He glanced around the room, then shoved the note deep into his pocket like it might burn him.
Ayaka didn't even open hers. She stared at it as if it were a dead thing. Her fingers trembled.
Kaito's desk was still empty.
Sora leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
So they were accelerating.
Whoever was behind the notes—whether one person or a group—had stopped targeting individuals. This was a message to everyone now.
And the message was clear:
"You're all part of something. Whether you realize it or not."
---
Lunch period was unbearable.
Voices buzzed through the cafeteria, but no one spoke openly about the note. Conversations danced around it, glances shot across tables, and a strange current passed between students like they shared a dream they didn't want to admit was real.
Sora sat at a bench alone, peeling apart his sandwich slowly.
A chair scraped across from him.
He didn't look up.
"Yuto," he said coolly.
Yuto sat down with forced casualness, hands stuffed in his hoodie. "Okay. What the hell is going on?"
Sora blinked, still not looking at him. "You tell me."
"I got that note too. Everyone did. But you—" Yuto leaned in—"you've known something. Since last week. Since those rumors started."
"Rumors?" Sora echoed. He finally looked up, eyes sharp. "That I'm cursed? Possessed? Controlled by ghosts?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Yuto paused. "Then tell me the truth. Are you the one leaving the notes?"
Sora's expression didn't change. But his voice dropped to a whisper.
"If I were leaving the notes, do you think I'd waste them on people like you?"
Yuto flinched. "Damn, man—!"
"You're weak, Yuto. You crack when you feel the floor shift under your feet. I don't crack. I move the floor."
Yuto stood up suddenly, his chair scraping loudly. "You're losing it, Kuroda. Seriously. Get help."
Sora just smiled faintly.
And then said, loud enough for the students nearby to hear:
"Check your pockets, Yuto."
Yuto froze.
His hand instinctively moved to his jacket. Slowly, he reached into it.
Pulled out—another note.
Everyone nearby stopped chewing.
The noise in the cafeteria evaporated.
Yuto unfolded the paper with shaking hands.
He read it. Blinked. Then backed away from the table, face drained of blood.
"What does it say?" one of the boys beside him whispered.
Yuto looked at them.
Then at Sora.
Then ran.
---
That night, the city felt tighter. Smaller. Every light cast longer shadows. Every reflection seemed to lag behind.
Sora walked without his usual direction. Past train stations, vending machines, alleys where the lights stuttered.
His phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
> "You impressed us. That's rare."
He stopped in his tracks.
Another message.
> "But control is a lie. You're not at the top. You're barely inside."
Then a third:
> "If you want answers… come to the abandoned gym. Midnight."
No name. No sign of who sent it.
Just coordinates.
Sora stood in the middle of the sidewalk.
His heartbeat slowed.
They were inviting him in.
---
He arrived ten minutes early.
The abandoned gym was at the edge of a fenced-off campus that had been closed since before Sora was born. Boarded windows. Chain-locked doors. The smell of mold and rot in the air.
He stepped over the broken fence and moved through the dark.
The moment he entered, the building creaked. A hollow echo. Dust thick in the air.
He didn't speak. Didn't call out.
He waited.
A voice emerged from the dark.
"Why do you keep pulling strings, Kuroda Sora?"
He didn't flinch. "Because no one else will."
"Wrong."
Three figures stepped forward. Faces hidden by blank theater masks—white with faint red ink.
Sora stared.
"Who are you?" he asked.
They didn't answer.
One of them handed him something.
Another note.
"Welcome to the Game. You're now a Player."
---
The masks didn't move.
They didn't explain.
They just stood there—three silent statues in the dark, wearing theater masks painted with a spiral in red ink. It wasn't ink, actually. It looked too thick. Too dark.
Sora narrowed his eyes. "So this is the great truth? Three creeps in cosplay?"
Still no response.
Then the one in the center stepped forward.
Their voice was distorted—mechanically altered, genderless. Cold.
"If you're truly worthy, you'll pass our test. If you're not… you'll break like the rest."
Sora's tone turned sharp. "I don't break."
"Everyone breaks," said the voice. "The question is—when."
Another figure stepped forward and gestured toward the far side of the gym. A wooden chair stood alone beneath the broken scoreboard. On it, a tablet device.
The screen glowed softly.
Sora walked toward it without hesitation.
As he reached the chair, the screen flashed to life.
A single sentence appeared:
> "Choose the liar."
Then four blurry security camera clips began to play—each showing students from his class: Yuto, Ayaka, a quiet boy named Daichi, and the absent Kaito.
Each clip showed them speaking to someone—blurred audio, subtitles flickering on screen. In each, they made claims:
"I've never cheated on a test in my life."
"I don't even talk to Sora."
"I've never stolen from anyone."
"I've never seen those notes before."
Sora watched, expression still.
The clips looped.
He stared at each face. Every micro-expression. Every blink. Every hesitation.
He didn't hesitate long.
He pressed the screen over Ayaka's clip.
The screen turned black.
Then flashed a single word:
> Correct.
From the shadows, the central figure stepped forward again.
"You watch well. That's why you've been chosen."
"Chosen for what?" Sora asked.
The masked figure tilted their head.
"For the next level."
---
They gave him no address. No timeline. Only a final card, slipped into his jacket pocket:
> "Observe. Influence. Extract.
The Game is everywhere now."
And just like that, they vanished into the dark—swift, silent, practiced. Sora was alone in the echo of the rotting gym.
He stood there, heart slow, thoughts fast.
So it wasn't just about him anymore.
They were testing the whole school.
And he'd been promoted.
But promoted to what?
---
He returned home just past 1 a.m.
The lights were out. His mother was asleep on the couch, an empty bottle next to her.
He paused at the hallway—then walked to the back room.
The one that hadn't been opened in years.
His father's office.
He turned the handle.
Locked.
He stared at the door.
Memories bubbled—his father shouting, slamming it shut. The smell of ink. The sound of paper being torn.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the door.
And whispered:
"...What were you hiding in here?"
The door stayed silent.
But inside his chest, something old—something buried—began to stir.
---
He barely slept.
When he arrived at school the next morning, he found another message taped under his desk:
> "You've passed the first test.
Now, let's see what you do… when the next liar is someone you want to protect."
---
Kaito came back to school the next day.
But he wasn't the same.
He walked differently—slower, as if every step needed permission. His eyes were dull, glassy, and his face didn't register the people calling his name.
Sora watched from across the hall, hidden behind the corner of the stairwell.
Kaito passed by three students from their class—didn't blink, didn't look. Even when one of them clapped him on the back and said, "Yo, Kaito! Where've you been?"—he just kept walking.
Dead silence inside his skull.
That wasn't Kaito.
That was an empty puppet wearing his face.
Sora's chest tightened. Not from fear.
From rage.
---
During math class, a student broke.
Not dramatically like Ayaka.
This time, it was subtle—quiet—but in many ways, far worse.
A girl named Haruka sat two rows behind Sora. Always quiet. Average grades. Not the kind of person you'd think to watch.
Until today.
Today, she was watching everyone.
Eyes wide. Darting. Face pale.
Her hands kept trembling.
Every few seconds, she scratched her wrist. Hard. Red marks bloomed.
Sora didn't say anything.
He waited.
Watched.
Ten minutes into class, she stood up without warning.
The teacher stopped mid-sentence. "Haruka-san?"
She didn't speak.
She just took out a folded piece of paper and dropped it on the floor.
Then another.
Then another.
Six in total.
She walked to the front of the class, set a seventh on the teacher's desk, and turned to face the blackboard.
Without a word, she sat down on the ground.
Cross-legged.
Like a statue.
No one moved.
The teacher walked forward, picked up the note on his desk, opened it—and immediately turned pale.
He read it out loud.
> "One of you is a liar.
One of you watches.
One of you follows orders.
One of you is about to scream."
Everyone turned toward Haruka.
She was still staring at the blackboard.
Then she opened her mouth.
And screamed.
High. Piercing. Raw.
Students jumped back. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted her name.
She didn't stop.
She screamed like she was being burned alive.
The teacher rushed forward. Tried to pull her up. She didn't resist—but she didn't help either.
Her eyes didn't blink once.
She just screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
---
After school, the principal made a speech about "mental health awareness."
Sora didn't stay to listen.
He walked straight to the empty clubroom on the third floor—the one where he could think without interruption.
Kaito was already there.
Sitting by the window. Eyes blank.
Sora shut the door behind him.
"I know you didn't send that message," he said.
Kaito didn't respond.
"But I think you know who did."
Silence.
Then—Kaito turned to him. Slowly.
His voice was hollow.
"They don't want balance anymore."
"What do they want?"
"Entropy."
Sora narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"They're breaking the system to rebuild it. But first, they have to break the players."
Sora stepped forward, fists clenched. "Are you broken, Kaito?"
"I don't know."
"Then why are you helping them?"
Kaito looked up, and for the first time… his eyes shimmered.
"Because I think I already lost the game."
---
That night, the dream returned.
The hallway.
The belt.
The blood.
The silence.
But this time—it continued.
Sora was lying on the floor, coughing. His breath came in short bursts. Everything was blurry. He turned his head—just a little.
And saw his mother.
Standing at the door.
Watching.
But… not empty. Not emotionless.
She looked terrified.
And something else.
Guilty.
Then the door slammed shut again.
---
Sora jolted awake, gasping.
He stumbled out of bed, palms slick with sweat.
On his desk—another note.
Short.
Not signed.
Not sealed.
Just three chilling words:
> "You're next, Observer."
---
"You're next, Observer."
The message repeated in his head as Sora stood over his desk.
This one wasn't like the others.
No signature. No metaphor. No riddles.
It was personal.
Deliberate.
And dangerous.
Because it called him what they called him.
Observer.
Not a name he ever spoke aloud. Not something he ever wrote. It was his private title for himself—quiet, internal, precise.
He stared at the note.
How did they know?
---
That morning, the house felt… off.
The air was heavy. Like something unseen had settled over it during the night.
His mother stood at the stove, making rice. The pan sizzled, but she didn't move much. Just stirred and stared ahead.
"You're up early," she muttered without looking at him.
"I couldn't sleep."
She nodded, still not turning.
After a moment, Sora asked, "Do you remember what was in Dad's office?"
She froze.
Just for a second.
Then went back to stirring.
"No."
"You're lying."
Still no response.
He stepped closer.
"You were afraid that night, weren't you? You watched him hit me. You saw the blood. And you didn't stop him."
She turned then.
Slowly.
Her face was pale, lips thin.
And she said, very softly:
"Some truths protect you better when buried."
Sora didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
---
Later that day, after school, he found a note in his locker.
No one saw who left it.
Inside was a photograph.
Faded. Black and white.
Of a boy.
Standing in front of a classroom blackboard.
The chalk behind him read:
> "Class 1-A | Observer Initiation: 1994"
The boy's eyes had been scratched out.
On the back of the photo, one sentence:
> "Every generation has one."
---
Sora held the photo tightly, breath short.
He wasn't the first.
He wasn't the only one.
There was a system.
A cycle.
A hidden role passed down like a curse.
---
When he got home, the front door was unlocked.
That wasn't normal.
He stepped inside quietly.
No sound.
No smell of food. No clatter of dishes. No hum from the TV.
He moved down the hallway slowly, like walking through fog.
And stopped.
The door to his father's locked office…
Was wide open.
No key.
No scratch marks.
Just open.
He stepped through the threshold.
Dust. Rotten wood. Papers scattered.
The window at the far end was cracked open.
The wind moved gently through the room, fluttering one single sheet of paper on the desk.
Sora picked it up.
His throat tightened.
It was a drawing—crude, childlike—but familiar.
A stick figure with X's for eyes. Strings attached to its arms.
Above it: a shadowy shape holding the strings.
And in jagged writing:
> "The Observer sees,
But never escapes."
---