"Are you sure it was Naila?" Nayla asks.
We're huddled in the back of Class XI-C, heads low, whispering like conspirators in a high school noir remake.
"Short hair. Sat by the window. Drew cursed-looking cats. That Naila," I mutter.
Nayla flips open her Anomaly Log, the most cursed spreadsheet ever made in Google Sheets. She scrolls, highlights another name in red.
"That makes seven," she says, voice low. "Seven classmates forgotten."
Raka's hands fidget on the desk. "We're next, aren't we?"
"Unlikely," Nayla replies. "We've remained consistent variables. High recall value. Social anchors."
"Could you say that with less… math?"
"You're loud, Raka. People remember loud."
Before I can chime in, a voice cuts through.
Not mine. Not theirs.
But from inside their heads.
"She is correct."
Raka jumps like he just got zapped by a holy water taser.
"WHAT THE—"
Nayla drops her pen.
"Who the hell just narrated my brain?!"
"Peace. I mean no harm. This is... an experimental projection."
"Vicki," Raka wheezes, eyes wide, "is your ghost talking inside my soul?!"
"Apparently," I say, not sure whether to be proud or afraid.
"I am Avici Narak. Apologies for the sudden intrusion. I assure you, the process is painless."
"You just violated HIPAA, bro," Raka mutters, clutching his temples.
"Get out of my head," Nayla snaps, blinking fast. "I already have three voices up there, I don't need a fourth."
"Then silence the others. I require focus."
"Oh my God he's insufferable," Nayla groans.
"I have been called worse. By kings."
"Of course you have."
I rub my temples. "Can we please just… not implode right now? Avici, since you're already here, care to explain the ticking doom?"
"The pattern feeds on absence. Seven names are gone. Six remain. When thirteen are erased, the vessel will fracture."
"We get it," Nayla mutters. "Thirteen bad. Got it tattooed in my anxiety."
"So what now?" Raka asks.
"Now," I say, showing them the screen, "we follow a text from someone worse than ghosts."
On my phone: "Stall three. Top corner. Find the eye. —A.D."
"Anata Dharma," Nayla sighs. "Figures he'd be watching."
"Creep."
"Informant," Avici corrects. "His eyes are everywhere. Even where gods look away."
"Cool," Raka says. "So we're trusting info from a guy who probably dreams in Latin."
We sneak out before fifth period.
The third-floor bathroom stares at us like it knows what we've done.
Nayla opens the door like she's kicking in the gates of hell. The lights flicker. Of course they do.
Inside, stall three waits. Cursed. Silent. Familiar.
"Top corner," Nayla mutters. "Give me a boost."
Raka boosts her up. She flicks on a flashlight.
"Anything?" I ask.
"Yeah," she breathes. "Something's carved in here."
We all lean to see.
It's an eye.
Long. Vertical. Etched with inhuman precision. Spirals surrounding it like roots or cracks in reality.
"Well," Raka whispers, "that's not ominous at all."
"That's the first sigil," I say. "The Eye of Disjunction."
"Correct," Avici says inside all of our heads again.
Raka groans. "Bro. I don't like having surround sound ghost mode."
"Get used to it."
"Don't wanna."
Nayla takes a photo.
Or tries to.
"It won't show up," she mutters, tapping her phone. "Image is blank. No trace."
"Magical anti-evidence protocol?" I suggest.
"Or anti-snitch protocol," she says. "The kind of stuff secret cults love."
"Only those tethered to the pattern may perceive the sigils," Avici adds.
"So… us," Raka says.
"Yes. And perhaps… others."
We go silent.
"Others?" Nayla asks. "Define 'others.'"
Avici pauses.
Then answers in the voice that makes the air go still.
"There are always more watching than you think."