The school library smelled like aged paper and regret—a musty sanctuary stacked with tomes that hadn't seen daylight since the bubble economy burst. Kai pushed through the double doors at lunch, the group's "study session" cover as flimsy as Sora's fake cough. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, a gray drizzle that mirrored Kai's mood. Ms. Hayashi's name from the text burned in his mind: The advisor's still here. English teacher, soft-spoken sub, giver of A's for "insightful" essays. If she was Mori's 1987 echo, the betrayal stacked like dominoes—Nakamura, now her?
"Table in the stacks," Yumi directed, her voice a low hum under the librarian's hawkish gaze. She led them to the back corner, where yearbooks slumbered on iron shelves, spines cracked like old smiles. Aiko claimed the table, spreading notebooks for camouflage, while Sora slumped dramatically, head on arms. "Library quest? Feels like a bad RPG. Where's the loot chest?"
"Here," Kai said, hauling down the 1987 volume—Seika Echoes: Class of '87. The cover's embossed cherry blossoms mocked him, petals frozen in faux innocence. He flipped to the staff section, finger tracing rows of portraits. There: Hayashi, young and wide-eyed, hair in a bob, smile bright as fresh ink. Advisor, Yearbook Committee.
Yumi leaned in, breath fogging the page. "Club sponsor. Bet she oversaw the 'official' story—scrubbed the overdose from the spreads."
Aiko pulled the 1988 edition, cross-referencing. "Look—dedication page. 'To our guiding light, Ms. Hayashi, for preserving our memories with grace.' Ironic. Or coded."
Sora perked up, munching a contraband rice ball. "Preserving? Like, hiding bodies? Wait, bad joke." He winced at Aiko's elbow jab.
Kai skimmed the candid shots: club photos, sports triumphs, a grainy dance formal. But page 142 snagged him—a group shot of the yearbook staff, teens clustered around a table strewn with layouts. Hayashi front and center, arm around a lanky boy with hollow cheeks: the overdose victim, per the drive's tox report. Name: Hiroki Sato—distant cousin to the donor? Smirking in the back row: a younger Nakamura, then vice-principal, clipboard in hand. And blurred at the edge, half-cut off: the scar-faced teen who'd grow into Mori.
"Gotcha," Kai whispered, snapping a photo. "Hayashi's link—Sato kid was her protégé. If she knew about the drugs, the cover-up..."
Yumi nodded, pulling her laptop sleeve tighter. "Drive has an email draft—unsigned, but her initials. 'Handle the negatives. No traces.' Negatives? Photo darkroom in the old wing. She torched evidence."
The pieces slotted: Hayashi as gatekeeper, Nakamura as enforcer, Mori as puppeteer. 1987's scandal—a doped-up rich kid's "fall"—buried to protect the pipeline of dirty yen. Dad had unraveled it, earning the sedan "kiss." Now, they held the threads—recordings, files, yearbook ghosts.
Aiko closed the book with a thud. "So, confront her? Sub class tomorrow—easy access."
Sora groaned. "Confront? Last time was punch bowls and panic attacks. Can we email the cops anonymously? Or, y'know, ghost her?"
"Ghosts are our specialty," Yumi quipped, but her eyes were steel. "Cops need ironclad—leaks to press first, force their hand. Auntie says Mori's got badges on payroll."
Kai's phone buzzed—vibrate discreet in his pocket. The group text chain: Club meeting, Room 3-C, after school. Bring yearbooks. —E (via Yumi). He typed back: Hayashi confirmed. Plan?
Reply pinged: Watch her watch you. Lockdown drill today—3 PM. Use the chaos.
Lockdown drill? Kai's school calendar flashed: routine safety exercise, quarterly since some vague "threat." Doors sealed, lights low, "intruder" hunt. Perfect cover—or trap.
The lunch bell rang, scattering them. Kai lingered, shelving books with mechanical precision, mind mapping escape routes. Hayashi's classroom was wing-adjacent; if she was Mori's eyes, the drill could flush them.
Afternoon classes blurred—math equations dissolving into conspiracy webs. By 2:50 PM, the PA crackled: "Attention, students. Lockdown drill commencing. This is not a test. Secure rooms, silence phones."
Panic rippled like dominoes. Hallways emptied in a stampede, doors slamming. Kai's group reconvened in the library's "quiet zone," a partitioned nook with study carrels. Yumi barred the door with a chair, Aiko rigging a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Sora paced, wringing his hands. "Drill my foot. This feels like Saw meets school policy."
"Shh," Kai said, cracking the yearbook again. Footsteps echoed outside—teachers herding stragglers? Or shadows circling? He peered through the blinds: empty quad, rain sheeting the glass. But the admin building's lights flickered on, Nakamura's silhouette pacing his office.
Yumi's laptop whispered open, audio from the gala queued low. "Playback for focus. Hayashi's voice—we match it to old recordings."
The clip rolled: Nakamura's damning drawl, faint lawyer echo. Then—nothing. A thud from the hall. Closer. Deliberate.
Sora froze. "Guys? That wasn't thunder."
The door handle rattled—tested, then yanked. The chair held, but wood groaned. A voice, muffled: "Open up. Staff check."
Kai's skin crawled. Hayashi? He signaled quiet, heart jackhammering. The group crammed into the carrel, backs to the wall, lights off. Rain drummed a frantic rhythm.
Another rattle, harder. "I know you're in there, Tanaka-kun. Library logs—your badge swipe at noon." Ms. Hayashi's voice, soft as ever, but edged with frost. "Come out. We can talk. About your father."
Sora's eyes bulged—silent scream. Aiko clutched her sketchbook like a shield. Yumi mouthed: Stall.
Kai swallowed, stepping forward. "Ms. Hayashi? Drill rules— we're secure." His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed on. "Just studying. Yearbooks for history project."
A pause, then a chuckle—cold, rehearsed. "History. Yes. I've got files on that. On Hiroshi. Open the door, or I call security. Nakamura's on speed dial."
The name-drop landed like a slap. Kai's mind raced—deduction time, under fire. Details: Her sub last week, praising his essay on "justice in shadows." Fishing? The yearbook photo—her arm around Sato, protective. Guilt? Or complicity? And the darkroom— if negatives burned, why chase them now? Loose end: The drive's email draft. She knew they had it.
Counter: Bluff. "We know about the negatives, Sensei. And the email. 1987—Sato wasn't an accident." He let it hang, pulse roaring. Truth or bait?
Silence stretched, taut as wire. Then—a key scraped the lock. Picked? The chair buckled, door inching open. Hayashi's face appeared—pale, bob haircut framing eyes sharp as scalpels. Behind her, the hall empty... but a glint at the far end: Nakamura's keys jingling, approaching.
"Smart boy," she murmured, slipping in, door clicking shut. She was slight, cardigan over blouse, but her stance screamed cornered cat. "Eiji's niece put you up to it? Yumi—always meddling." Her gaze swept the group, lingering on the yearbook splayed open to her portrait. "Close it. Now."
Sora whimpered, but Aiko hurled her sketchbook—distracting, pages flying like confetti. Yumi lunged for the laptop, slamming it shut. Kai dove for the door, but Hayashi blocked, hand dipping into her pocket—a slim canister, mace? "Don't. One spray, and you're the 'disruptors' in the drill report."
Trapped. Rain lashed harder, masking the scuffle. Nakamura's footsteps thumped closer—thud-thud—echoing doom.
Kai's brain fired: Details. Her keys—standard issue, no admin master. Voice—steady, but tremor on "Eiji." Fear? The email draft: Handle the negatives. But if she burned them, why fear revival? Unless... copies. Hidden.
"Echoes," Kai said, stalling. "Dad called it that—past mistakes rippling. You protected Sato, right? Covered for Mori to save the club? But the tox report... you kept a copy. In the darkroom. Leverage?"
Hayashi flinched—micro-tell. Got her. "Leverage? That boy was my student. Mori's poison—pushed the 'supplements.' I hid the proof to expose him later. But Nakamura... he shredded my shot. Now you kids? You'll get hurt."
The door rattled—Nakamura outside. "Hayashi? Report!"
She hesitated, eyes flicking. Ally? Or act? Kai pressed: "Then help us. The drive—it's Mori's end. Join, or we're all echoes."
Her hand wavered on the canister. Nakamura pounded: "Open! Now!"
Decision point. Hayashi's whisper: "Darkroom. Tonight. Negatives under floorboard. But if you're lying—"
The door burst—Nakamura, red-faced, wrenching it wide. "What's this? Unauthorized assembly!"
Chaos erupted. Sora yelped, toppling a shelf—books avalanching like an avalanche. Aiko scrambled under the table, Yumi hurling the yearbook at Nakamura's face. Kai grabbed Hayashi's arm—not rough, urgent. "Run!"
She yanked free, but not away—toward the group, canister spraying the hall behind as Nakamura ducked. "Go! Service stairs—now!"
They bolted, a tangle of limbs and lies, weaving through stacks. Alarms wailed—drill end? Or real? Rain-slick quad blurred as they hit the exit, Nakamura's shouts fading.
Panting in the downpour, Yumi grinned fierce. "She flipped. Hayashi's in."
Sora wheezed. "Deduction level: God. But lockdown's toast—expulsion party?"
Kai clutched the salvaged yearbook page, soaked but intact. First real win under fire—Hayashi's crack in the wall. But Nakamura's glare lingered, promising payback.
His phone buzzed, water beading on the screen: Well played, kid. Darkroom at midnight. But Mori's goons prowl—bring backup. The sedan's got plates this time. —E
Midnight. Negatives. The web tore wider, but so did the light.
End of Chapter 6
(Next chapter tease: Midnight darkroom raid unearths the hidden negatives, but Mori's ambush turns the escape into a high-stakes chase through the storm—revealing a shocking family tie that changes everything for Kai.)