The vending machine in Seika High's main hallway was a relic of the '90s—hulking blue beast with a flickering neon "Coke" sign, buttons worn sticky from a decade of yen-fed desperation. It hummed like a dormant dragon, promising caffeine salvation between bells. But lately, it had turned traitor: spitting Pocky for soda orders, gumballs in place of tea cans, and—most unnerving—fortune slips tumbling out with every clunk. Beware the shadow that knows your name.A friend hides a key. Whimsical? Or whisper?
Kai fed it a 100-yen coin at lunch recess, punching for green tea. The spiral whirred, then jammed—out popped a pack of strawberry KitKats, wrapped in a hand-scrawled note: Sweet surprises await the watchful. —C
"C for creepy," Sora muttered, snatching the candy. He tore it open, popping one in. "Third time this week. Mine yesterday: 'Coins can't buy closure.' Ominous snack."
Yumi leaned against the machine, testing a button—chocolate bar ejected, plus a slip: Stories end where connections begin. She arched a brow. "Lit club vibes. But the handwriting—blocky, faded marker. Not kid scrawl."
Aiko joined the huddle, her sketchpad out, doodling the machine as a mischievous genie. "Haunted vendor! Art club's betting pool: ghost or gremlin. Last week, it gave out expired gum with 'Chew on your regrets.' Poetic sabotage?"
Kai pocketed the note, mind mapping. Details: Machine's lock intact, no pry signs; fortunes on recycled receipt paper, edges curled from a humid drawer. Emiko's nudge post-scores: Haunted vending? Connection's the code. Whimsical intervention—lonely bid?
"Stakeout," he decided. "After hours. Patterns: times, snacks. Who stocks it?"
Sora groaned through a KitKat crunch. "Custodian duty? Mr. Sato—grumpy grandpa, mops like it's therapy. Alibi: he's the only one with the back key."
Sato. Kai's gut pinged: Not the overdose Sato, but kin? Post-Mori, names echoed. "Check the logs. And the fortunes—coded?"
The group split for classes, but the hum followed Kai through afternoon lectures—algebra blurring into vending vendettas. By dismissal, the hall thinned to echoes, janitor carts clanking like clues. They reconvened by the machine, flashlights dimmed, Aiko's snacks as "bait" props.
Yumi fed a coin—whirr, clunk: wrong soda, right note. Laughter mends what yen can't. She read it aloud, voice soft. "Warm. Not haunt—hint?"
Sora paced. "Prankster poet. But why? Club flex? Or... bored staff?"
Footsteps scuffed—soft, shuffling. They ducked behind the trophy case, hearts thumping. Mr. Sato approached, mid-60s stoop, uniform baggy over a frame thinned by years. He unlocked the machine's side panel with a jangle, restocking cans methodical, humming a tuneless melody. But his hand paused—slipping a note into a KitKat pack, marker in pocket.
"Busted," Sora whispered, but Kai held up a hand. Sato's face: not sly, but soft—eyes distant, a half-smile like lost company. Lonely bid.
They tailed him to the custodian closet: dim bulb, shelves of rags and polish, a lone radio crackling enka ballads. Sato sank onto a stool, unfolding a photo from his wallet—faded print of a young family, him beaming beside a boy in a school uniform. Seika crest.
Yumi's voice cut gentle from the door crack. "Mr. Sato? The notes... yours?"
He startled, photo fluttering. "Kids? Eavesdropping? Not polite." But no anger—resignation. "Aye. The machine... talks back, y'see. Wife passed last spring; boy's off to uni, no calls. Hall's empty after bells—thought, why not? Snacks with smiles. Fortunes from old advice columns—'connect, don't collect dust.'"
Aiko stepped in, sketchpad extended. "Not creepy. Kinda... cool? Like vending therapy."
Sora deflated. "Grandpa gremlin. We thought haunt—sorry."
Kai knelt, picking up the photo. The boy: familiar grin—wait, Riku's cousin? Soccer overlap. "Laughter mends... that's for the team, right? Post-trophy lift."
Sato's chuckle rasped. "Sharp eye, Tanaka. Riku chats—team's tight. Notes nudge: share stories, not scores. My way—whimsical wake-up."
Warm-hearted core. Kai's intervention clicked: not bust, bridge. "Squad idea: Custodian corner? Art-lit collab—notes in the mural, your tales. Connection, not coins."
Sato's eyes misted. "Mercy? Been lonely as the hum. Alright—pen my first?"
Resolution bloomed: closet confab, Aiko sketching Sato's enka dreams, Yumi scripting "fortune files." Machine restocked with consent—notes now signed C for Custodian, whimsy welcomed. Hall chatter shifted: "Vendor's wise!" Kids feeding extras, chats sparking.
By dusk, quad glowing, Sora fist-bumped Sato. "Next: ghost ramen? Your recipe?"
Yumi laughed. "Endless echoes."
Emiko's text: Connected. Rumor: 'missing' club banner? Or let whimsy vend?
Kai grinned, the machine's hum a harmony now. Everyday: snacks served with souls.
End of Chapter 16
(Next chapter tease: The "missing" art club banner—snatched for a surprise school festival display—unfolds as a collaborative secret project among rival clubs, revealing a budding inter-club romance and Kai's role in weaving the first threads of a larger school-wide mystery tapestry.)