Morning arrived without warning. The ceiling lights brightened slowly, imitating a sunrise that did not exist. The so-called teacher was gone. No footsteps, no lingering presence, no voice echoing rules or riddles. Just absence, deliberate and heavy, as if it were meant to be noticed.
Silence settled over the classroom. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that pressed against the ears.
"We can't stay like this," a boy finally said. He stood from his seat, straight-backed, his expression sharpened by impatience. "We don't even know who we're dealing with."
Several students shifted. Some nodded. Others looked down.
"We should at least know each other's names," he continued. "If we keep acting like strangers, we'll break apart before anything else does."
A girl leaned against a desk near the window, arms crossed. Her gaze was cool, measuring. "Names lead to familiarity. Familiarity leads to leverage."
The boy frowned. "That's paranoid."
"No," she replied calmly. "That's realistic."
The room subtly divided. Not physically, but emotionally. Those who wanted structure leaned forward. Those who feared it pulled back.
"I'm Ren Aoyama," the boy said at last. "I don't like hiding."
A faint scoff followed. "People who say that usually hide the most."
She stepped forward. "Mika Shindo. And that's all you're getting."
Ren clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Another voice cut in, light, almost playful. "Wow, already fighting? This place really brings out honesty."
A tall boy stretched lazily in his chair. "Sora Makino. Formerly worked in media. Honestly, this place isn't so bad. Quiet. Clean. No crowds."
"That's sick," someone muttered.
Sora smiled. "Is it?"
Names followed unevenly, cautiously.
"Kei Nakamura," said a thin boy near the front. "I observe more than I speak."
"Yuna Park," a girl added, her accent faint. "I lived abroad."
"Daichi Mori," came a low voice from the back. "That's enough."
When their eyes turned toward me, I didn't resist.
"Johan," I said. "I lived in Kyoto."
Nothing more.
Mika studied me. "Just a name and a city. Smart."
"Or irrelevant," I replied.
She smirked, unconvinced.
Before the tension could thicken further, the classroom doors slid open.
Beyond them was not a corridor.
It was a shopping mall.
Bright lights reflected off polished floors. Storefronts stretched endlessly, stocked with clothes, electronics, food, books. Cafés steamed with fresh drinks. Escalators moved smoothly. There were no employees. No customers. No noise beyond the soft hum of machinery.
Disbelief rippled through the group.
"This has to be a joke," Ren said.
Sora was already walking forward. "If it is, it's generous."
Some students rushed in, laughter breaking through fear. Hands grabbed snacks, drinks, bags. Relief poured out of them in careless bursts. Others lingered near the entrance, eyes darting, suspicious.
"This isn't kindness," Kei murmured beside me. "It's preparation."
"For what?" Yuna whispered.
"For choice," I said.
Near a closed boutique, a man sat down on the floor and laughed quietly. His eyes were dull, tired beyond his age.
"My name is Wamaksi," he said suddenly, voice rough. "I don't care where this is."
People turned toward him.
"In my old life, I ran a company," he continued. "Partners, employees, rivals. Smiles that hid knives. I hated it." He gestured around the empty mall. "This place is perfect. No people. No lies."
Ren frowned. "You think this is permanent?"
"I hope it is," Wamaksi replied. "I don't want to go back."
"That's not your decision," Mika said coldly.
"Why not?" he asked. "Who decided returning is the reward?"
Sora stopped browsing. His smile faded into something thinner.
"You're talking like you'd abandon everyone else," Ren said, stepping closer. "That kind of thinking gets people killed."
Wamaksi shrugged. "Then leave me behind."
Tension snapped.
Before anyone could react, Sora moved.
It was sudden, efficient. His hand shot forward, fingers locking around Wamaksi's throat. Shock froze the room. Wamaksi gasped, hands clawing uselessly as Sora leaned in, eyes clear, almost bored.
"I hated people too," Sora whispered. "That's why this feels easy."
A dull crack echoed. Or maybe it was just silence breaking. Wamaksi collapsed and died.
No scream followed. No one ran. Sora straightened slowly, wiped his hand on his jacket, then laughed. Loud, unrestrained.
"Well," he said, "that answers one question."
Fear finally arrived, crawling into every chest.
Somewhere above us, unseen, something watched.