The door to the old wing didn't so much open as sigh—a low creak that echoed like a held breath in the stale air. Kai pushed it wider with his shoulder, flashlight beam slicing through the dust motes like a knife through fog. Behind him, Sora's sneakers squeaked on the threshold, his breathing a mix of excitement and terror. Aiko brought up the rear, her phone's glow casting eerie shadows on her determined face.
"Smells like forgotten dreams and mildew," Sora whispered, pinching his nose. "If we find a skeleton, I'm out."
"Shh," Aiko hissed, elbowing him. "Ghosts have ears. Or whatever."
Kai didn't reply. His focus was on the hallway ahead: peeling wallpaper curling like old skin, doors ajar to rooms frozen in time. The music room was at the end, its plaque crooked and faded—Orchestra Practice: Est. 1952. He stepped lightly, ears straining for footsteps that weren't theirs. The fabric scrap in his pocket felt heavier now, a tangible anchor to the impossible.
The door to the music room hung off one hinge, swaying gently as if nudged by an unseen hand. Kai eased it aside, and they slipped in. Moonlight filtered through grimy panes, painting the space in silver and gray. Sheet music fluttered on stands like trapped birds, and the grand piano hulked in the corner—a relic with keys yellowed from disuse. The bench sat innocently enough, its lid propped open to reveal a nest of cobwebs.
"Check the bench," Kai murmured, echoing the text. He knelt, running his fingers along the underside. Splinters pricked his skin, but he ignored them. Details wait for no one. Dad's words, repurposed by a stranger. His nail caught on something—a loose panel, camouflaged by years of neglect. With a soft pop, it gave way, revealing a shallow compartment carved into the wood.
Sora leaned over, flashlight wobbling. "Whoa. Secret stash? Like pirate treasure?"
"Or contraband," Aiko added, peering in. "Old love letters? Blackmail?"
Kai's hand trembled as he reached inside. His fingers brushed cold metal first—a badge, tarnished but unmistakable. Tokyo Metropolitan Police, Detective Hiroshi Tanaka. Engraved with his father's initials. Kai's breath hitched. It was the badge—the one missing from the hit site, presumed lost in the chaos of that rainy night. How? Why here?
He pulled it out, the weight of it pulling memories in its wake: Dad clipping it to his belt each morning, the metallic click a promise of home by dinner. Gone now, like him. Kai turned it over, and there—tucked beneath—a folded scrap of paper, yellowed and crisp. He unfolded it carefully, the trio huddling close under the combined glow of their lights.
Scrawled in faded ink: H.T.—The suits own this place. 1987 scandal buried deeper than the foundations. Key's in the dean's old desk. Don't trust the shadows. Watch for the black sedan. —E.
E? Kai's mind raced. Elias? No—Eiji, maybe? Dad's old partner, retired after the "incident." And 1987? That was the year Seika High's "expansion" happened—the new wing funded by anonymous donors, whispers of kickbacks and cover-ups. Local legend had it a student overdose got hushed up, blamed on "bad wiring" in the gym. But Dad had poked around it once, Kai remembered—a file he'd glimpsed, stamped Closed: Insufficient Evidence.
"This is your dad's?" Sora's voice was hushed awe. He poked the badge gently, like it might vanish. "How'd it end up in a creepy piano bench? Time travel?"
Aiko traced the note's words with her finger, not touching. "Scandal? Like, real crime? This school's got skeletons, alright. My grandma went here—said the dean's office was off-limits even then. 'Ghosts in the files,' she'd joke."
Kai folded the note, slipping both into his pocket next to the fabric. His heart hammered, pieces slotting like a half-solved Rubik's cube. The "ghost" in the suit, the black car in the photo, the sedan mentioned here—it all looped back. Dad hadn't died in a random hit-and-run. He'd been chasing this, whatever rot festered under Seika's manicured lawns. And someone—a guardian? A taunter?—was dangling clues like breadcrumbs.
"We need that key," Kai said, voice steady despite the storm inside. "Dean's desk. It's in the admin building—across the quad."
Sora's eyes bugged. "Now? It's like, ghost o'clock! And breaking into admin? That's expulsion territory, not detention."
Aiko nodded slowly, her artistic spark igniting. "But think of the sketch potential. A real conspiracy! I'll document everything—anonymous tips to the school paper."
Kai glanced at the window, where the courtyard lay still under the moon. No shadows stirred. Yet. "One step at a time. If this 'E' is right, the shadows are watching. We move quiet, get out clean."
They filed out, the badge a secret fire in Kai's chest. The quad was a no-man's-land of overgrown hedges and forgotten benches, the admin building a squat brick bunker lit by a single security light. Sora's flashlight danced nervously as they approached, Aiko scouting the perimeter like a pint-sized spy.
"Window's cracked," she whispered, pointing to a ground-floor pane. "Art supply run last month—left it for 'ventilation.'"
Kai boosted her up first; she wriggled through like smoke, unlatching the door from inside. Sora went next, with much grunting and a muffled curse about his backpack snagging. Kai followed, landing softly in a storage closet reeking of toner and old coffee.
The dean's office was two doors down—a nameplate reading Principal Nakamura gleaming mockingly. The lock was a joke, picked by Aiko's hairpin in under a minute. "Art club perks," she grinned.
Inside, the room was a shrine to bureaucracy: filing cabinets like sentinels, a desk piled with reports, and a wall of framed photos—smiling students, ribbon-cuttings, the works. Kai beelined for the desk drawers, rifling silently. Pens, staples, a half-eaten mochi wrapper. Bottom drawer: locked, but flimsy. He wedged his multi-tool—Dad's old gift, disguised as a keychain—and it popped open.
Jackpot. Amidst yellowed memos, a small brass key on a faded tag: Old Wing Basement. And tucked beside it, a photo—grainy, dated 1987. Teens in uniforms, arms around a suited man with a familiar watch chain. The dean? No—the shadow from Dad's text photo, younger, smirking beside a black sedan parked illegally on school grounds.
"Guys," Kai breathed, holding it up. "This is it. The connection."
Sora whistled low. "Whoa. That's the ghost dude, right? Creepy family reunion."
Aiko snapped a pic with her phone. "Evidence secured. Now—"
A floorboard groaned outside. Not theirs. They froze, lights off, breaths held. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—approached the door. The knob turned with a click.
"Hide!" Kai mouthed, yanking them behind the desk. They crammed in, knees to chins, as the door swung open. A beam of light swept the room—not a flashlight, but a penlight, precise and probing. The figure stepped in: tall, suited, the glint of polished shoes catching the moon. He moved to the desk, rifling the exact drawer they'd just emptied.
Kai's hand brushed the badge in his pocket. Watch for the shadows. This was one—alive, hunting. The man muttered under his breath, Japanese laced with frustration: "Idiots. Always one step behind."
He straightened, scanning the room. Kai held his breath, pulse roaring. Then—a phone buzzed in the intruder's pocket. He answered in a low growl: "It's gone. The kid's sniffing too close—Tanaka's brat. Handle it quiet."
The call ended. The man turned, light grazing the desk's edge— inches from their hiding spot. Kai's mind screamed options: Tackle? Run? But before he could choose, the intruder cursed softly and backed out, door clicking shut.
Silence crashed down. Sora exhaled like a deflating balloon. "Did he say 'Tanaka's brat'? That's you! We're toast!"
Aiko peeked over the desk. "Coast clear. But that call... they're onto us."
Kai stood, key and photo clutched tight. The pieces burned hotter now—scandal, sedan, shadows converging. Dad's death wasn't accident; it was erasure. And Kai? He was the loose end.
His phone vibrated—another text. Good eyes, kid. But the dean's not the end. Follow the money to the founder's plaque. Dawn approaches—move. Attached: a map pin, dropped right on the school courtyard fountain.
Sora groaned. "More cat-and-mouse? I need therapy after this."
Kai pocketed the phone, resolve hardening. "Or a club. But first—fountain at dawn. This ghost? It's got stories to tell."
As they slipped out into the night, the school's clock tower chimed three—a toll for secrets unearthed, and dangers just waking.
End of Chapter 3
(Next chapter tease: At dawn by the fountain, a submerged clue points to the 1987 scandal's heart—a forged donation tying the shadowy man to Seika's elite alumni, and a fresh threat from an unexpected ally.)