The stairwell down from the roof felt longer than it should have.
My legs were heavy—not from running, but from the stamina penalty still dragging like wet concrete in my veins. Every step echoed too loud in the empty corridor. The minor drift glide trait was nice in theory, but using it had left me feeling hollowed out, like someone had scooped a spoonful of energy and forgotten to refill the bowl.
I paused on the landing between floors, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes for five seconds. Just breathing. In. Out. Trying not to think about how close that thing on the roof had come to turning me into a statistic.
**Stamina: 62/100**
**Recovery in progress. 28 minutes remaining until normal rate resumes.**
**Reminder: Don't be stupid twice in one day.**
The system didn't phrase it as advice. It phrased it like a disappointed parent.
I pushed off the wall and kept descending.
By the time I slipped back into Class 2-B, the afternoon period had already started. The teacher—a middle-aged man with glasses perpetually sliding down his nose—was droning through a literature lesson on some classic I vaguely remembered skimming in my old life. Something about ghosts and regret. Ironic.
I slid into my seat as quietly as possible. A few heads turned. Most didn't.
Aira did.
She was three rows ahead, half-turned in her chair like she'd been waiting for me to show up late and disheveled. One eyebrow arched. Her lips moved silently: *Where were you?*
I mouthed back: *Bathroom.*
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.
The teacher didn't notice. Or didn't care.
I opened my notebook, tried to look attentive. My handwriting looked different in this body—smaller, sharper angles. Foreign.
The static hadn't left.
It was quieter now, muted like background radiation, but still there. Crawling along my forearms. Settling behind my eyes. Not aggressive. Just… watchful.
Like the city itself was keeping tabs.
---
PE period came after literature.
Worst timing possible.
The class changed in the locker room—awkward teenage shuffling, jokes about who smelled worse after morning practice, someone blasting music from a phone speaker. I kept my head down, changed fast, avoided eye contact. My new body wasn't scrawny exactly, but it lacked definition. Soft where the old one had been worn from bad posture and worse sleep. Another reminder this wasn't *me*. Not anymore.
Out on the field: track running, basic warm-ups, the usual.
The coach—a burly guy with a whistle permanently around his neck—split us into pairs for relay practice. I ended up with a tall, quiet boy named Kenji who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
We jogged in place while waiting our turn.
"You're the new guy, right?" he asked, voice low.
"Yeah. Haruto."
"Kenji. Don't mind the stares. Half the class thinks you're some celebrity transfer. The other half thinks you're weird."
I gave a weak laugh. "I'm leaning toward weird."
He shrugged. "Better than boring."
Our turn came. We lined up. The baton felt too light in my hand.
The whistle blew.
I took off.
Normal running at first—legs pumping, breath steady. Then the static flared again. Not danger. Just… awareness.
Something small moved in my peripheral vision.
Not on the field.
Under the bleachers.
A flicker of shadow. Too quick to identify.
My foot caught.
Not a full trip—just enough to throw my rhythm.
I stumbled forward, arms windmilling. The baton flew out of my grip.
Kenji caught it mid-air somehow, kept running. The class laughed—good-natured, not cruel.
I hit the grass on one knee. Skin scraped. Nothing serious.
But the stumble hadn't been random.
The static pulsed once—sharp, almost smug.
I looked toward the bleachers again.
Nothing visible now.
But I felt it. Watched.
**Supernatural Sense – faint residual presence detected. Likely observer-class entity. Non-hostile (for now).**
Observer-class.
Meaning it wasn't here to fight.
It was here to *watch*.
I pushed myself up, dusted off my shorts, jogged back to the line like nothing happened.
Kenji handed the baton back on the next loop. "You good?"
"Yeah. Just… tripped."
He gave me a look that said he didn't buy it, but didn't push.
The coach blew the whistle for cooldown laps.
I ran slow. Kept my eyes on the edges of the field.
The static followed me the whole time—like a shadow that refused to stay behind.
---
After PE, back in the classroom, the day dragged toward the end.
I sat at my desk, towel around my neck, still damp from the quick rinse in the locker room sinks. The static had dulled to a background hum again. Manageable. Annoying.
Aira dropped into the seat in front of me—backward, arms folded on the backrest.
"You're a mess," she said cheerfully.
"Thanks."
"Seriously. You look like you fought a ghost and lost."
I almost laughed. "Close enough."
She studied me. Not mocking this time. Curious.
"You're not just weird. You're *on edge*. Like you know something's coming."
I met her eyes for the first time properly.
She wasn't joking.
I hesitated.
Then shrugged. "Maybe I do."
She leaned in a little closer. Voice lower.
"If it's occult club stuff… stay away. They're idiots. But real trouble? That's different."
I blinked. "You know about that kind of thing?"
"Everyone in this city knows *something*," she said. "Some people pretend they don't. Some people poke it with a stick. Guess which one I am."
She stood up as the final bell rang.
"Don't die before tomorrow, transfer boy. I'm starting to like having you around to stare at."
She walked off.
I sat there a moment longer.
The classroom emptied.
The static lingered.
Not gone.
Just waiting.
**Echo Evolution – passive observation milestone reached.**
**Minor trait reinforced: +1% evasion against low-speed observers.**
**Last pride status: Still attached. But pride doesn't run. It limps.**
I closed my notebook.
Packed my bag slowly.
Outside the window, the sun was already low.
Kamigoe City looked almost normal in golden light.
Almost.
But I knew better now.
The watchers were real.
And they were patient.
**End of Chapter 4**