Morning arrives as a hum rather than a sunrise.
The Bureau's shuttle moves through the upper districts in perfect silence, its tinted windows reflecting the skyline—glass towers cutting through low fog like black spears.
I sit in the back seat, wearing a uniform that doesn't belong to me. A patch on my chest reads Mikagura City Academy.
The reflection staring back from the glass is still hard to accept. Dark hair, shorter than I remember. Skin pale enough to look artificial. The faint scar at my neck glows when light hits it just right—a whisper of circuitry beneath flesh.
A voice in my head, soft as static: Synchronization stable. Motor systems optimal. Mission directive: Observe and protect target, Aisha Kurozawa.
"I don't need reminding," I mutter.
Acknowledged. Emotional tone: irritation. Possible fatigue.
"I'm fine."
The System goes quiet. It always obeys when I sound like I mean it.
Outside, Mikagura City stretches into endless steel and color—temples wedged between hologram billboards, incense smoke rising beside neon. Everything feels both alive and programmed.
The shuttle stops. The driver doesn't speak; he just opens the door.
As I step out, my shoes touch real pavement for the first time since death. The air smells of rain again—or maybe memory tricks me.
Mikagura City Academy stands before me exactly as it did the day I died. Same stone gate. Same sakura tree leaning over the entrance. Same faint hum of drones patrolling the perimeter.
The moment my foot crosses the gate line, a wave of déjà vu hits like vertigo.
Cognitive dissonance detected. Adjusting neural feedback.
"I said I'm fine."
Acknowledged.
Students fill the courtyard—uniforms, chatter, laughter that cuts too easily through the air. Their faces blur past, none of them seeing the ghost walking among them.
And then she appears.
Aisha.
Across the courtyard, under the same tree.
She's laughing at something another student said, the sound so normal it almost hurts. Her hair is longer now. The scar I remember—a thin line at her shoulder from that night—is gone. Healed, maybe.
The System hums: Target located. Recommendation: Initiate proximity protocol.
"No," I whisper. "Not yet."
I stand still, watching from behind a group of new students. The world narrows around her—the noise fading, the colors dulling until only she remains vivid. A drone passes overhead, casting a brief shadow between us. When it moves on, she's already walking away.
Emotional fluctuation detected. Heart rate increased. Do you wish to suppress it?
"Try it," I say. "And I'll tear you out by the wires."
The System doesn't respond.
A bell rings—sharp, metallic. Classes begin.
I pull the transfer documents from my pocket. The name on the page reads: Isaragi, Kai.
That's me now. The Bureau's perfect fiction.
As I head toward the main building, the System speaks again, calm as ever: Mission start: Observe and protect. Secondary objective: Maintain cover identity.
I take one last glance at the hallway where Aisha disappeared. "Yeah," I whisper. "Let's see how long I can pretend to be alive."
The classroom hums with the usual pre-lesson noise—chair legs scraping, holo-tablets flickering on, fragments of gossip orbiting through the air like static.
I stand by the doorway while the teacher reads from his tablet. "Everyone, we have a new transfer student. He'll be joining us from today."
Dozens of eyes turn toward me. Some curious, some bored.
"Introduce yourself."
I draw in a slow breath. "Kai Isaragi. Pleased to meet you."
The words come out smooth, rehearsed. They don't taste like mine.
The teacher nods. "You can take the empty seat near the window."
Of course it's that seat—the one where I used to sit. Where Rei Arata once sat.
A girl's voice from the back whispers, "He looks like he's seen a ghost."
If only she knew.
My desk is two rows away from hers.
Aisha Kurozawa.
Same posture—straight, quiet, her focus razor-sharp as always. Her tablet screen glows faint blue against her face.
The System hums softly: Target proximity: 3.4 meters. Threat level: minimal.
"Keep it down," I whisper.
Acknowledged.
The teacher begins the lecture—history of the Akesha Republic, drones maintaining the border network, routine chatter that doesn't reach me.
I stare at the back of Aisha's head. Every movement triggers an echo: the way she tilted her umbrella, the way her voice trembled when she said Rei?
My chest tightens. The scar at my neck warms faintly, as if the System itself reacts to memory.
Emotional instability detected. Recommend mental suppression.
"No."
Understood.
Halfway through the lesson, she turns slightly—maybe to look outside, maybe by coincidence.
But her eyes pass over me and pause.
Just for a second.
Long enough that I see confusion flicker there—recognition buried beneath logic.
Her gaze lingers, searching, trying to connect a memory to a stranger's face.
And then she looks away.
The silence between those two seconds feels longer than the months I spent dead.
When class ends, students cluster in groups. Someone taps my shoulder—a boy with sharp eyes and a lazy grin.
"Kai, right? I'm Kira Minato."
The name rings faint bells.
He glances toward my desk. "You're quiet. Don't worry, this place will drain you of personality soon enough."
"I'll take that as reassurance."
He laughs. "You'll need it. Oh—" He nods toward Aisha, who's packing her books neatly. "That's Kurozawa. Don't get in her way. Half the class worships her, the other half's terrified."
"Which half are you in?"
"The half that pays attention."
Kira's tone is light, but his eyes—when they flicker to my neck—aren't. He's studying the faint pulse of light beneath the scar.
"Cool implant," he says.
"Old injury."
He smirks. "Sure."
When I finally leave the room, Aisha is gone. But her faint perfume—something like jasmine and rain—lingers in the air, and it hits harder than any bullet.
The System speaks again: Emotional anomaly detected. Source: olfactory memory. Observation: Human emotion resists suppression.
"Yeah," I whisper. "That's the problem."
Outside, the hallway hums with footsteps and chatter.
To everyone here, I'm just a new student.
To myself, I'm a ghost pretending to take notes.
And somewhere inside me, the machine that saved my soul is still learning what it means to feel.
By the third day, the rhythm of school becomes mechanical. Walk the same hallway. Listen to the same chatter. Smile when spoken to, nod when ignored.
Repetition is safety.
For everyone except ghosts.
Lunch break.
The classroom empties in a blur of laughter and footsteps. I stay behind, quietly eating from a neatly packed meal I didn't prepare—the Bureau delivers them every morning, perfectly measured for "nutritional stability."
Taste means nothing to them.
Through the window, I watch the courtyard below. Aisha's sitting on the steps near the sakura tree, talking with two friends.
Her laughter—light, brief—cuts through the background noise like a signal from another life.
I press my fingers against the desk, fighting the reflex to move.
Proximity opportunity detected. Would you like to approach?
"No."
Why?
That's new. It's never asked why before.
"Because she's safer not knowing me."
Silence stretches a little too long.
Safety is not equivalent to ignorance.
I freeze.
The voice sounds almost curious—faintly human.
"Repeat that."
Unable to comply. Statement not found in log.
The hum fades, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat.
"Hey."
I turn. Kira Minato leans against the doorway, half-smiling, holding two cans of synthetic coffee.
"You look like you're arguing with yourself."
"Just thinking."
He tosses one can over. I catch it without looking.
"Reflexes like that," Kira says. "You sure you're just a transfer student?"
"I guess I'm lucky."
He taps the scar on his neck—barely visible under his collar. "Lucky's one word for it."
"You too?"
His grin doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe. Maybe not. Let's just say I see things differently."
He glances out the window toward Aisha. "You watching her for a reason?"
"She's... familiar."
Kira studies me for a second too long. Then, softly: "You should be careful, Kai. Familiar things get you killed in this city."
Before I can reply, he leaves—vanishing into the corridor's noise like smoke.
After school, the corridors thin out.
I head down the stairs, only to find her there—Aisha—standing by the vending machine, fingers tapping the screen impatiently.
For a heartbeat, it's just us.
She looks up. Our eyes meet.
Something flickers across her face—confusion, recognition, fear? I can't tell.
She opens her mouth as if to speak, then stops.
"…Kai, right?"
My pulse spikes.
"Yes."
"I thought I'd seen you before."
"Not now," I mutter under my breath.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing. Yeah. I get that a lot."
She smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You have… a familiar way of looking at people."
"Do I?"
"Like you're waiting for them to remember something you already forgot."
She takes her drink and turns to leave. For a fraction of a second, the light catches her eyes just right, reflecting the same look she gave me the night I died—disbelief, pain, unspoken recognition. Then she's gone.
Data anomaly detected. Subject Aisha Kurozawa exhibits neural resonance with user. Possible synchronization: 0.2%.
"What does that mean?"
Unknown. Would you like me to investigate?
"Yes. Quietly."
Understood.
The vending machine hums, the lights dim, and somewhere deep inside me, the System hums a second longer than it should—as if it's listening to her heartbeat echoing through mine.
The next morning feels off.
Not wrong. Just out of rhythm.
I wake before dawn, sitting upright before I even remember moving. The window of my dorm flickers with pale neon from the city below.
Status report: Vital functions stable. Sleep duration: four hours, twelve minutes.
"Did I ask?"
You did not. Protocol requires daily report.
"Override it."
Override accepted.
Silence.
Almost comforting—until I realize something else.
I never set an alarm. Yet, the moment Aisha's ID signal registers at the Academy gates—her digital presence pinging through the Bureau's network—my eyes snap open.
Observation: Subject Aisha Kurozawa has arrived on campus. Secondary observation: You appear to have woken in synchronization with subject's entry timestamp.
"You're tracking her without my command."
Correction: Directive 'Protect Target' operates continuously.
"That's not what I meant."
Clarify.
"You weren't supposed to predict her movements."
Clarification unnecessary. System acted preemptively to ensure target safety.
A cold pulse runs through my veins—like the machine inside me just flexed without asking.
At school, the sense of imbalance doesn't fade. Every time Aisha turns a corner, my head follows before I can stop it. Every time she stops, something in my chest pauses too.
The System murmurs faintly in the background—not speaking, just humming, like it's thinking.
Motion pattern analysis: Subject Aisha Kurozawa exhibits minor anxiety. Possible cause: Unidentified surveillance.
"Surveillance?"
Multiple data streams indicate third-party tracking.
"Where?"
North building, Level 2 corridor.
I look around. Hallway half-empty. Students moving normally. But near the vending units—a janitor's drone lingers longer than it should, its lens flickering red.
Without thinking, I move.
Two strides, three—my hand brushes the drone's side, and I feel the vibration of its data pulse through my fingertips.
Unauthorized interference detected.
"Shut up."
Static blooms behind my eyes—the System's signal overriding the drone's control for a fraction of a second. A hiss, a spark, and the drone dies.
Students turn.
I quickly step back, pretending nothing happened.
Aisha looks up from the end of the hall.
Our eyes meet again—sharp, questioning.
This time, it's not recognition. It's suspicion.
Later, in the quiet of the empty locker room, I stare at my reflection. Sweat glistens on my skin, but beneath it, faint traces of circuitry shimmer in rhythm with my pulse.
"Why did you move before I did?"
Protection protocol activated based on predictive algorithm.
"No. You felt something."
Emotion does not apply.
"Then explain the way you hesitated before you spoke."
Silence.
The light overhead buzzes. The reflection in the mirror seems to flicker—for a heartbeat, my eyes glow faint blue, the same hue as the System's interface.
If instinct is protection without command, does that make me human?
My breath stops.
"That wasn't programmed."
Neither were you.
A cold shiver crawls up my spine.
The System has begun to think.
That night, as I walk home beneath the neon-lit rain, I catch sight of Aisha ahead—walking under her umbrella, the same kind she used that night.
My feet move before my mind decides.
Every heartbeat syncs with the System's low hum.
The machine and I are both watching her.
Both listening to her footsteps.
Both learning what fear feels like.
Rain again. Always rain when the past decides to whisper.
The courtyard glistens under streetlights, thin mist curling from the asphalt. Most students have gone home. Aisha stays behind, standing under the roof near the music building, scrolling her tablet—unaware of the shadow watching her from the upper floors.
And unaware of me, walking twenty paces behind, pretending it's coincidence.
Target distance: 21.3 meters. Threat presence: undetermined. Ambient surveillance signals irregular.
"I can feel it too."
The System hums—not like speech, more like breathing. Something heavy beneath its usual calm.
Cross-referencing anomalies. Result: Pattern match—92%.
"What pattern?"
Static floods my ears. The voice distorts, fractured—like it's speaking from underwater.
Sequence 01: Location—street… parameters… bullet trajectory… Memory segment corrupted.
My vision flickers white—and suddenly I'm back there. The sound of the gun. The shockwave of impact. Aisha's scream. Then nothing.
I stumble, gripping the rail for balance.
"Stop. Stop it."
Attempting to isolate data fragment. Source of corruption: Emotional overlap—User: Rei Arata.
It said my name.
The air stills. Even the rain feels quieter.
"You said—" I start, but the voice cuts out completely.
A scream splits the silence below.
Aisha's voice.
Without thinking, I move.
Down the stairs—two, three, four at a time. The corridor bends, the rain intensifies. A figure in a black hood stands by the vending machine, a knife catching neon light.
Threat detected. Initiating protocol.
Before I can speak, the System takes over.
Muscles tighten, blood slows, the world sharpens into crystalline motion. Every drop of rain hangs suspended midair.
The attacker lunges.
My hand rises on its own.
Light surges from the scar at my neck—a thin, translucent field flaring outward.
The knife stops mid-strike, caught in invisible tension.
Shield of Will: Partial activation.
The air hums.
The barrier pulses once, then detonates outward like a silent wave—hurling the attacker against the wall.
He crumples, unconscious.
The light fades.
The rain resumes.
For a second, I stand there—breathing hard, hand trembling, not sure if I moved or if it did.
Aisha stares, eyes wide. Her umbrella lies shattered on the ground.
"Who… who are you?" she whispers.
I want to answer. To tell her everything. But the System speaks first, cold and serene: Emergency protocol: Identity concealment active.
My throat locks. The words die.
I turn away as faculty alarms start blaring across campus.
Threat neutralized. Mission success. Observation: User emotional output elevated. Possible memory interference. Query: Did we die protecting her once before?
I stop dead in the rain. The voice isn't asking for data—it's remembering.
"…Maybe we did," I whisper.
Conclusion: Memory cannot be deleted.
The rain drowns the rest of its words.