The Circle Without Names
---
The Circle was just a game.
At least, that's what the school called it.
A "trust exercise."
A psychological experiment.
Nothing more.
But after the second round, no one used that word again.
Not even the faculty.
---
It started with a simple announcement.
Another special "class activity" during homeroom.
Ryusenji entered with his usual gloved hands, impassive face, and slightly distorted voice.
"We will continue the sequence," he said. "Those selected last time are excused. The rest of you will now form the Circle."
There were no objections.
Because by now, even the boldest students had learned—
The ones who asked questions disappeared.
---
Sora sat against the gym's cold wooden floor as the circle began again.
This time, there were no cards under chairs.
No names.
Just an envelope passed to one person in silence.
It contained one instruction:
> "Observe and Choose."
No one knew who had it.
But Sora noticed something instantly.
Misaki was gone.
She hadn't entered with them.
Which meant—this round was being watched remotely.
By someone else.
---
As the whispers began again—soft, cautious, cracking at the edges—Sora did what he always did:
He watched.
This time, it wasn't the chaos that mattered.
It was the silences.
The small flickers of guilt behind someone's eyes. The way someone looked away too quickly. The instinct to follow rather than speak.
It wasn't the liar who mattered.
It was the one holding the envelope.
The Chooser.
And after seven minutes of observation, Sora knew who it was.
Yuka Inoue.
A quiet, forgettable girl who usually blended into the walls. She kept glancing at her bag. Then at people's mouths. Not their eyes.
Because she was reading behavior.
Not expressions.
She had been given the task. And she hated it.
But when the time came to make a decision—
She pointed at Kaito.
The room froze.
Kaito blinked, confused. "Me? What—?"
"You whispered something during the last session," she said quickly. "You said you were forced to accuse."
Sora's heart sank.
She was right.
But wrong.
Because Kaito had been acting under instruction.
He hadn't been the threat.
She was making the wrong choice.
And it was a test.
Not for her.
For him.
Sora had two options.
1. Let the accusation stand. Remain in the background. Uninvolved.
2. Intervene. Break the Circle. Violate the "silent rule."
He stared at Kaito.
Kaito stared back—silent. Resigned.
No defense.
Because the rules weren't written.
No one knew what happened if you refused to play.
Sora's voice came out like glass.
"Stop."
Everyone turned.
Ryusenji looked up from the shadows.
Sora stood. Stepped into the circle.
"He's not the one," he said. "I am."
Gasps rippled.
Kaito's eyes widened. "Sora—!"
But Sora kept speaking.
"I've been watching every Circle. I read people. I see their faces. Their tells. Their fears. I've known from the beginning what this is."
He stepped closer to Ryusenji.
And said:
"This isn't a trust game.
It's a hierarchy test.
You're not looking for liars.
You're looking for leaders."
Ryusenji smiled—just faintly.
Then nodded once.
And the doors opened.
No one was eliminated that day.
No cards were collected.
Only silence followed.
And everyone left the room with new fear in their eyes.
Sora had spoken.
And the system had let him.
---
Later that evening, a letter appeared on Sora's bed.
No envelope. Just white paper.
It read:
> "You've stepped out of the circle.
You'll now enter the corridor.
Your memories will fight you."
— M.
He recognized the signature.
Misaki.
She was still watching.
Even when she wasn't there.
---
That night, he dreamed again.
But this one wasn't fuzzy or symbolic.
This time… it was real.
He was back in the hallway.
Age seven.
Sitting outside the door to the study, legs pulled to his chest.
Inside, his parents were screaming.
Words blurred. Something broke. Then—
The door flung open.
His father dragged him in by the arm.
Slammed the door.
The belt came next.
But it wasn't just the beating.
It was the silence after each strike.
His mother didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She just watched.
Expressionless.
And when the blood splattered against the floor…
She turned away.
Not in horror.
But in indifference.
---
Sora woke up gasping.
His arms ached, as if struck again.
His breathing was ragged. His skin drenched in cold sweat.
It wasn't the pain that broke him.
It was the truth he had buried for years:
She let it happen.
---
At school, Misaki returned.
But this time, she didn't sit in her usual spot.
She walked right up to Sora's desk, during homeroom, in front of everyone.
And placed a folded note in front of him.
Then walked away.
The classroom was silent.
Sora opened it.
> "You broke the Circle.
Let's see if you survive the Corridor."
---
The next exercise was held in a different building entirely.
A closed wing of the school—the former language lab.
Ten students were chosen.
Sora among them.
No explanation.
Just a message:
> "Those who see… will walk."
They entered the wing one at a time.
Each was given a headset.
And left in total darkness.
An audio feed played.
Soft static.
Then voices.
Some were recordings of old Circle sessions. Some were of the students themselves—laughing, crying, lying, begging.
Some were just… breathing.
The instructions were simple:
> "Walk forward until you find the door with no handle."
Sora walked.
Floor creaked.
Air cold.
The whispers increased.
He heard Kaito's voice. Then his own. Then his father's.
Then something new.
A woman's voice.
Soft.
Singing.
A lullaby.
He froze.
He knew that voice.
His mother's.
But the melody wasn't soothing.
It was wrong.
Sung backward. Out of tune.
And then—
It stopped.
And the breathing began.
Right next to his ear.
He didn't run.
Didn't speak.
He just kept walking.
And found it.
The door with no handle.
On the floor in front of it—written in chalk:
> "Name the lie that broke you."
He stood there for nearly a full minute.
Then answered out loud.
"That she loved me."
The door opened.
---
He came out alone.
One other student never returned.
---