Thursday, May 2 – St. Ivy High
No announcements. No warnings.
Just the strange feeling that something was… off.
It began the moment students walked in.
Someone had replaced all the markers in the teachers' lounge with uncapped decoys—none of them worked. The first period lesson on the whiteboard had to be written in pencil.
The school's entrance display board, which usually showed weather forecasts and cheerful quotes, now displayed a looping message in plain text:
"It's not a glitch. Just don't worry about it."
And still—no one knew who to blame.
In the Art Club room, things got weirder.
Every single easel had been carefully turned to face the wall. The paint trays were perfectly washed, but a note had been taped to the center of the supply shelf:
"Your brushes deserved a day off."
When Luna arrived, she just stared for a long moment, then quietly took a seat and began sketching on the floor instead.
In the corner, someone had stacked a tiny pyramid of erasers with a sticker on the front:
"Modern sculpture. Please respect."
In the Science Club lab, it was worse.
The entire tool rack had been swapped around. Safety goggles were in the beaker shelf. Magnets were taped to the ceiling. And every time someone opened the main cabinet, ocean wave sounds blasted from a hidden speaker.
The club president screamed into his notebook.
One of the juniors whispered, "I think the building's haunted."
The Debate Club wasn't spared either.
Every chair in the room had a sticky note that read things like:
"This seat supports your emotions."
"Please argue kindly."
"Remember: logic doesn't mean cruelty."
And the whiteboard had a list of mock debate topics:
Is cereal a soup?
Does pineapple belong on personality types?
Should we cancel Mondays altogether?
The team captain walked in, read the list, then left the room without saying a word.
The HE Club kitchen was spotless when Amaya arrived.
But in the center of the prep table was a cupcake — not one she made — wrapped delicately, with a tiny card taped to it:
"You probably won't take a break, but you deserve one anyway."
No name. No clues.
Just a cupcake. Perfectly chilled.
She blinked at it.
Then slowly smiled.
Even the locker hallway got hit.
One by one, students found their lockers had been tampered with — not broken, not vandalized — but reorganized in oddly thoughtful ways.
Books arranged by favourite subject first.
Snacks placed neatly in a corner with post its that read: "Emergency supply. Recharge."
One locker had a single banana inside with a tag:
"You're peeling great."
Nobody knew how it happened. Or when.
The music room piano had every other key labelled with tape — but the notes spelled out the sentence:
"You're playing life just fine."
Someone in Drama Club discovered the rehearsal closet was filled with balloons.
Inside one: a rolled-up fake script titled "The Tragedy of Overachieving: A One-Act Comedy."
At lunch, the cafeteria trays had been untouched. But hidden underneath several tables were folded paper messages like fortunes.
Jay walked through the cafeteria with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning lazily.
A girl from Class 1-D pulled a note from beneath her bench and whispered, "Oh my god," under her breath.
It said:
"You've made it this far. That's already impressive."
Back in the classroom, someone had scribbled on the board in light yellow chalk—just faint enough that it could be missed:
"We're not trying to disrupt.
We just wanted to be noticed."
Sofia read it three times.
Then erased it.
But didn't say anything to anyone.
Jay stayed silent all day.
He didn't run. Didn't sneak around. Didn't even bother hiding.
Because he wasn't doing it anymore.
He started it.
But now… the club had taken on a life of its own.
Whoever they were—however many had joined—they were everywhere.
And no one suspected him.
Not once.