School didn't quiet the sound.
It changed it.
The hallway buzz was sharper than the street—contained, repetitive, layered with voices that hadn't learned how to hide yet. Lockers slammed. Shoes scuffed. Someone laughed too loud, then laughed again when no one joined.
Daiso moved through it like he always did—head down, steps measured, shoulders angled just enough to slip through gaps before they closed.
But today, the wire followed him inside.
It stretched along the ceiling lights. Vibrated through the PA system when announcements crackled on. Bent around clusters of kids the way air bent around heat.
He slid into his seat as the bell rang.
Too early.
The wrong kind of early.
Daiso pressed his palms flat against the desk and focused on the grain of the wood. Scratches. Gum residue. A shallow groove someone had carved with a key, half a heart that never got finished.
Listen, he told himself.
The classroom settled into its usual shape—chairs scraping, papers shuffling, the teacher's voice smoothing everything into order. It should have helped.
It didn't.
The sound threaded through it all, thin but persistent. Not danger. Not yet.
Attention.
Daiso felt it when someone turned to look at him.
He lifted his head slowly.
A boy two rows over—older, bigger, already bored with everything—was watching him. Not curious. Measuring. Like he'd noticed something out of place and decided to test whether it stayed that way.
The wire tightened.
Daiso broke eye contact first.
The teacher started talking about fractions. The words passed through him without landing. He watched the clock instead, counting the seconds between ticks. The rhythm was off by a fraction—too fast, then too slow.
At the back of the room, a chair leg wobbled.
Not enough to fall.
Enough to irritate.
Daiso shifted in his seat, foot brushing the desk leg next to him. The wobble stopped.
His breath hitched after.
He hadn't even thought about it.
That scared him more than the plaza had.
When the bell rang again, it came too loud. Chairs erupted. The wire snapped loose all at once, releasing pressure that left him dizzy.
Daiso stood too fast and bumped shoulders with the same boy who'd been watching him.
"Watch it," the boy said, tone flat but eyes sharp.
"Sorry," Daiso said automatically.
The boy didn't move.
The space between them narrowed.
The wire screamed.
Daiso felt it—how this could tip. How a shove here turned into a fall, how a laugh turned into a crowd, how the wrong teacher looked away at the wrong second.
He shifted his weight, half a step back—
A hand landed on the boy's shoulder.
"Move," a girl said. Not loud. Certain.
The boy glanced back, irritated, then stepped aside with a scoff.
The girl met Daiso's eyes for a split second. Her gaze was steady, curious in the way people got when they noticed something but hadn't decided what it meant yet.
Then she was gone.
The wire loosened.
Daiso stood there a moment too long, heart pounding.
Rina's voice echoed in his head. You're not invisible anymore.
He didn't like what that implied.
At lunch, the sound pooled instead of spiked. A low, constant hum under the cafeteria noise. Too many people. Too many almosts.
Daiso ate quickly, barely tasting the food, and slipped outside as soon as he could. The courtyard was quieter. Wind stirred dry leaves along the fence. Sunlight bounced off the windows, bright enough to make him squint.
He leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes.
The wire relaxed.
Barely.
Something was different now.
Not just that Rina had seen him.
That the city—school, streets, people—had adjusted around that fact. Tiny corrections. Glances held a beat longer. Near-misses resolving without him stepping in, but only because someone else did.
Shared load.
Shared risk.
Daiso slid down until he was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled to his chest.
If people started noticing him…
If they started relying on him…
The thought twisted in his gut.
Because attention wasn't neutral.
Attention pressed back.
The bell rang again.
Daiso stood, brushed dust from his shorts, and headed inside.
As he crossed the threshold, the wire hummed—subtle, alert.
Aware.
Somewhere beyond classrooms and schedules, something had noticed the shift too.
Not the boy.
The pattern.
And patterns, once seen, were hard to unsee.