The walk to the auditorium felt like crossing a minefield in slow motion. Every step Taro took echoed too loudly in the emptying halls, a stark percussion to the frantic rhythm of his heart. The fluorescent lights overhead didn't just flicker; they pulsed, a slow, sickly heartbeat of buzz-hum, buzz-hum. A poster for the upcoming culture festival peeled away from the wall at the corner, the tape giving up with a sound like a sigh. It fluttered to the floor, landing face-up: a vibrant, cartoonish image of a stage. A system nudge. A reminder of where he was going.
The whispers had become a constant, low-grade static in the back of his skull.
"…getting a message…"
"…who is she…"
"…auditorium is empty after four…"
He shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers curling into fists. Don't react. She can't know you hear her. If she knows, it gets worse. He'd figured that out on day two. Any visible response to her internal monologue—a flinch, a glance her way—seemed to feed the connection, made the thoughts clearer and her sanity more volatile. It was like trying to ignore a spider crawling up his neck while maintaining perfect eye contact with the person in front of him.
He turned the final corner. The double doors to the main auditorium stood imposing at the end of the hallway, painted a deep, glossy maroon. One was propped open with a worn-out sandbag. From within, he heard the clear, projected tones of a female voice.
"…and so I said, 'Darling, if you cannot project to the back row, you might as well be a stagehand!' Honestly, some people have no conception of theatrical presence!"
Kizana Sunobu. Even her casual conversation sounded like a monologue.
Taro paused just outside the door, stealing a moment to collect himself. He forced his breathing to slow, his shoulders to drop from their defensive hunch. He needed to project calm, disinterest even. This was just a classmate discussing club business. Nothing more. Just a chat about a flyer. That's all.
He peeked inside.
The auditorium was vast and shadowy, house lights dimmed. Only the stage was illuminated, a bright island in a sea of velvet-covered seats. Kizana stood center stage, bathed in a warm golden spotlight from a single working fresnel. She wasn't rehearsing a play. She was pacing, one hand gesturing dramatically as she spoke into her phone, which was perched on her shoulder.
She was… breathtaking. The user's description didn't do her justice. Her hair wasn't just long; it was a cascade of rich, chestnut waves that caught the light like polished wood, tumbling over her shoulders and down the back of her unbuttoned school blazer. Her figure was indeed voluptuous, the tailored uniform skirt emphasizing the curve of her hips, the white shirt straining slightly over a full chest. Every movement was fluid, practiced, designed to draw the eye. She was a living illustration of glamour.
And she was completely alone.
"…No, no, the lead is mine, Mr. Tanaka said my audition was 'transcendent'! I'm just waiting for… oh! He's here!"
Kizana's head snapped toward the doors, her face breaking into a brilliant, stage-ready smile. She ended her call without a farewell and spread her arms. "Taro Yamada! You made it! Don't just lurk in the shadows, come into the light!"
The shift was instantaneous. The casually dramatic girl on the phone was gone, replaced by a focused, radiating beam of attention aimed directly at him. Taro felt it like a physical force. He swallowed and walked down the center aisle, the plush carpet muffling his steps.
"Sunobu-san," he said, stopping at the edge of the orchestra pit. "You said you had ideas about the flyer?"
"Ideas? I have visions!" She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that echoed in the empty space. She stepped to the very lip of the stage, looking down at him. The height difference put her in a position of literal superiority. "But first, get up here. It's terribly dreary talking to the tops of people's heads."
A metal ladder led from the floor to the stage left wing. Taro climbed it, his shoes clanging on the rungs. The stage floor was scuffed and worn, smelling of dust, old wood, and a faint, sweet perfume—Kizana's. As he walked toward her, the whispers in his head sharpened.
"…she's touching the stage where he walks…"
"…so much perfume. It's cheap…"
"…why is he looking up at her…"
"See?" Kizana said as he approached. "Much better. Now we can converse as equals. Well, almost." She winked, a quick, flirtatious gesture. "So, the spring play. 'The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter.' A classic, but so… pedestrian in its usual renditions. I was thinking we need a modern twist. Something bold. Something that captures the agonizing romance of it all."
She began pacing again, her heels clicking a sharp staccato on the hardwood. "The flyer needs to reflect that. Not just some cherry blossoms and a moon. I'm thinking… dramatic lighting. A silhouette of the princess, looking longing into the distance. And me, of course, as the princess. My profile is the most recognizable."
Taro nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral, interested but not captivated. "A silhouette could work. Clean design."
"Clean? Boring." She stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "You're in the literature club, right? You understand subtext. Theme. The ache of forbidden love." She took a half-step closer. Her perfume was stronger now, floral and cloying. "The princess can never be with the mortal she loves. She's pulled away by forces beyond her control. It's tragic. It's romantic."
"…she's too close…"
The whisper was a needle in his ear. Taro forced himself not to step back. "It's a well-known story. People will come regardless of the flyer."
"People will come to see me," Kizana corrected with absolute certainty. "But the presentation must be flawless. That's where you come in. I need someone with a… quieter taste to balance my creative fire." She smiled again, this one softer, more conspiratorial. "I noticed you in the meeting. You were the only one not scribbling nonsense or staring into space. You were actually listening."
Taro's phone chose that moment to vibrate. Not a message. It was the distinct, pulsing pattern of a low-battery alert. He'd charged it to full that morning. He ignored it.
"So," Kizana continued, gesturing broadly. "What do you think? Should we use a deeper color palette? Reds and purples for passion? Or cooler tones, blues and silvers, for loss?"
He opened his mouth to give a safe, non-committal answer when a new sound cut through the auditorium's silence. The soft, melodic chime of the school's public address system powering on. A dry crackle, then a voice, distorted by static and a strange, digital warble.
"Ahem. Would… kssshh… student Osana Najimi… kssshh… please report to the… kssshh… auditorium? There is a… kssshh… message."
The announcement cut off with a sharp pop. The silence that followed was heavier, charged.
Taro's blood turned to ice. Osana. The system. This was a correction, a massive one. It was herding two rivals into the same location, with him present. It was creating a perfect jealousy storm.
Kizana frowned, looking up at the ceiling speakers. "Ugh, the intercom is so tinny. It ruins the acoustics. Who's Osana Najimi?"
"A classmate," Taro said, his voice tighter than he intended. He was already calculating. Osana would come. She was obedient, and a call over the PA sounded official. He had to get Kizana out of here, or himself out, before she arrived. "Sunobu-san, maybe we should continue this another time. The flyer isn't urgent, and—"
"Nonsense!" Kizana waved a dismissive hand. "Inspiration strikes when it strikes! Besides, your friend can wait. This is important."
"…Osana Najimi…"
The whisper was a cold, assessing tone. A new file retrieved. Taro's palms were sweating. He could feel the Script Pressure in the air now, a thickening, staticky hum that made the hairs on his arms stand up. The single working stage light above Kizana dimmed for a second, then blazed back at full intensity, making her wince.
"What is with the lights today?" she muttered, shielding her eyes.
The main auditorium doors creaked open. A slice of bright hallway light cut through the dim house. A small, hesitant figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.
"Hello?" Osana's voice called out, tinged with confusion. "I got a call to come here?"
No. No, no, no.
Taro watched, helpless, as Osana stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. She blinked, adjusting to the low light. She spotted him on stage, and her face, which had been downcast and disappointed since the failed confession, lit up with surprised hope.
"Taro? What are you…?" Her eyes then shifted to Kizana, and the hope flickered, replaced by wary confusion.
Kizana looked from Osana to Taro, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising. "Oh. This is your classmate? The one with the… interesting hair?" Her tone was lightly dismissive, the kind of polite cruelty that stung more than outright malice.
Osana's hands flew to her orange pigtails, a self-conscious gesture. She walked down the aisle, her steps slower now. "I was told to come. Is there a message?"
The whisper in Taro's head was no longer a fragment. It was a sentence, crystal clear and laced with a chillingly analytical coldness.
"…Two of them. Together. He is surrounded…"
The sanity drop was palpable. The air grew colder. The dust motes dancing in the stage light seemed to slow, hanging suspended. From the tech booth at the back of the house, a monitor flickered to life, showing a test pattern of violent, shifting colors before going dark again.
"There's no message," Taro said quickly, too loudly. His voice echoed. "It must have been a mistake. A glitch in the system."
"A glitch?" Kizana laughed, but it sounded off, hollow in the changing atmosphere. "How quaint. Well, since you're here… Osana, was it? We're discussing the spring play flyer. Taro has such a refined eye for design."
Osana had reached the orchestra pit. She looked up at them, a faint line between her brows. "You're… working on it together?" The question was directed at Taro, laced with a vulnerability that made his chest ache. He'd been avoiding her to save her life, and now it looked like he was choosing to spend time with the glamorous drama star instead.
"It's just a club thing," he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strained.
"It's art," Kizana corrected. She placed a hand on Taro's arm, a possessive, casual touch. "And it requires a certain level of… cultural appreciation."
The contact was like a brand. Taro jerked his arm away, a purely instinctive reaction. Kizana's eyes widened slightly in offended surprise.
"…she touched him…"
The whisper was a razor. The stage light flickered violently now, strobing. In the erratic flashes, Taro saw Osana's hurt expression, Kizana's growing irritation, and the empty, gaping maw of the dark auditorium behind them.
"Look," Taro said, desperation clawing at his throat. "This isn't a good time. The intercom was wrong. Osana, you should go home. Sunobu-san, we'll talk tomorrow."
"You're being very rude," Kizana stated, her voice losing its playful lilt. "I invited you here for a collaboration, and you're dismissive in front of…" she gestured vaguely at Osana, "…an audience."
"I'm not an audience," Osana said, her voice small but firm. Her childhood friend courage flickering. "Taro, what's going on?"
He couldn't answer. A new sensation was flooding him, not a whisper, but a stream. A continuous flow of calm, rational thought that was not his own.
Assessment: Rival One, emotional proximity high. Rival Two, physical proximity high. Target is demonstrating protective behavior toward Rival One. This increases threat level of Rival One. Simultaneous neutralization is inefficient. Priority: isolate Rival One. The catwalks. The weight of a sandbag. A tragic accident during set construction. No one would question it.
Override Mode.
The thoughts were ice-water in his veins. They weren't frantic or jealous. They were strategic. Operational. Ayano was no longer just a jealous girl. She was a system-augmented problem-solver, and the problem had two clear components: Osana and Kizana.
The overhead rigging, a network of metal bars and ropes high above the stage, let out a low, metallic groan. A single sandbag, used to counterweight a batten pipe, swayed gently on its rope. It was directly above the spot where Osana stood in the orchestra pit.
"Osana, move!" Taro shouted, the command ripping from him.
She flinched, looking up. Kizana gasped, following his gaze.
The rope holding the sandbag wasn't frayed. It was perfectly fine. But the pulley it was threaded through… Taro saw it in a strobing flash of light. The metal pin holding the pulley to the beam was glitching. One second it was solid, the next it seemed to shimmer, a pixelated distortion in reality. It was a system-manipulated weak point, a forced "accident" waiting for the right vibration, the right coincidence.
"…the pin is weak. A loud noise could dislodge it. The speaker. A feedback shriek…"
Ayano's thought finished the plan for him. She was somewhere in the darkness of the house, or maybe backstage, assessing, ready to act. The system was providing the tools: the glitching pin, the positioned sandbag, the isolated target.
"Get off the stage, now!" Taro didn't wait. He grabbed Kizana's wrist, pulling her toward the stage-left ladder. She yelped in protest, stumbling after him.
"What is your problem?!"
Osana, finally sensing the genuine fear in his voice, scrambled backward from the pit, her eyes wide with terror.
A new sound erupted—not from the intercom, but from the main speakers flanking the stage. A deafening, ear-splitting shriek of digital feedback, exactly as the thought had suggested. SCREEEEEEE—
Kizana screamed, clapping her hands over her ears. Taro winced, the sound drilling into his skull. Above them, the glitching pulley pin gave one final, violent shimmer.
With a sharp twang, the rope slipped.
The sandbag plummeted.
It wasn't aimed at Osana. She was already moving. It wasn't aimed at him or Kizana. It was a miss.
A calculated, system-orchestrated miss.
The heavy bag struck the edge of the orchestra pit with a thunderous, sickening CRUNCH of broken wood. Splinters exploded into the air. It landed right where Osana had been standing two seconds before, smashing through the floorboards and sending up a cloud of dust and debris.
The feedback screech cut off abruptly. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sound of trickling plaster and Kizana's hyperventilating breaths.
Osana stood frozen a few feet away, her face as white as paper, staring at the crater where she'd just been.
It was a warning. A show of force. The system demonstrating exactly what could happen, and how easily it could arrange it. And Ayano's thoughts, still flowing into Taro's mind, were chillingly satisfied.
"…Effective demonstration. Threat is recognized. Confusion is implanted. Next step: separation."
Taro's phone buzzed again, incessantly. He pulled it out, his hands shaking. The screen was a mess of glitching pixels, but a notification was clear.
System Alert: Script Pressure Critical. Event Override Active. Stability Crash Imminent.
Then, a new message popped up, from an unknown number with no digits, just a blank field.
Leave. Now. Take the orange one. The star is mine to dim.
It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.
Kizana was staring at the destroyed pit, then at Taro, her dramatic composure shattered into genuine, trembling fear. "What… what was that? The rope just…"
"The school's falling apart," Taro said, the lie automatic and brittle. He turned to Osana, who was starting to tremble. "Osana. Come on. We're leaving."
"But… her…" Osana whispered, looking at the terrified Kizana.
"Now," Taro insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. He had to get Osana out. The system and Ayano had identified Kizana as the primary target now, the "star to dim." Osana was to be removed from the equation, perhaps temporarily stabilized by his protective action. It was a twisted, horrific logic.
He half-led, half-dragged Osana up the aisle, away from the stage, away from the dust cloud and the broken wood. He didn't look back at Kizana. He couldn't. The whispers were shifting, focusing.
"…Alone now. Vulnerable. The backstage door locks from the inside. The cleaning supplies are there. Ammonia and bleach. A terrible, accidental mix…"
"Taro, your phone," Osana whispered, pointing at his hand.
He looked down. The screen was black except for a single line of text, glowing red.
OVERRIDE MODE: ENGAGED. SANITY: [NULL]. PROCEED.
The door to the backstage area, visible in the wing of the stage, slowly began to swing shut, as if pushed by an unseen hand. A shadow moved behind the grated window of the tech booth.
He had gotten one rival out. But he'd left another in the lion's den, with the lion now operating on a system-guided, ruthless autopilot.
And the only thing louder than the pounding of his heart was the calm, continuous stream of Ayano Aishi's thoughts, plotting a murder in perfect, placid detail.