The city had rules that were never written down.
Haruto learned them the same way everyone else did by watching who got hurt when they were broken.
Don't linger near military vehicles.
Don't ask why certain streets were blocked overnight.
Don't stare when men in dark uniforms walked past with sealed cases and unreadable faces.
Most of all, don't talk about the river.
Haruto walked to school alone that morning. Riku had sent a message saying his mother was sick, so he'd be late. Haruto adjusted his pace automatically, shortening his stride without realizing it, then correcting himself.
He didn't like how easily his body adapted.
The street vendors were already setting up, metal shutters rattling open. The smell of oil, fish, and burnt sugar mixed with the exhaust from passing buses. Overhead, a public screen flickered to life, broadcasting the morning news.
"…authorities reassure citizens that the situation is under control"
Haruto didn't look up.
The word situation was another unwritten rule. It meant something had gone wrong, and no one intended to explain it.
At a corner near the river district, he noticed fresh concrete poured along the sidewalk. Too clean. Too new. Cracks hadn't had time to form yet.
Covering something, he thought.
At school, the atmosphere was different.
Not loud. Not panicked. Just… restrained.
Teachers spoke more softly than usual. Two unfamiliar adults stood near the administrative office, wearing plain clothes that were too plain no logos, no color choices that felt human. Their eyes moved constantly, scanning students as if memorizing faces.
Haruto felt it then.
That subtle pressure at the base of his skull. The same feeling he'd had near the river.
He sat straighter in his seat.
During homeroom, the principal cleared his throat three times before speaking.
"There will be an unscheduled safety evaluation today," he said. "Classes will continue as normal. This is only a precaution."
No one asked what kind.
Children were good at pretending not to be afraid when adults did it first.
Haruto noticed the way attendance tablets were checked twice. The way wristbands normally ignored were scanned more carefully.
When his turn came, the device lingered on his wrist for half a second too long.
The administrator frowned.
Then smiled. "All good. You can go."
Haruto walked away without reacting.
Inside, something coiled tighter.
Riku finally arrived before lunch, breathless and apologetic.
"Sorry, sorry," he said, dropping into the seat beside Haruto. "My mom made me stay until the fever broke."
"Is she okay?" Haruto asked.
"Yeah. She's tough," Riku said, then squinted. "Hey… is it just me, or does it feel weird today?"
Haruto hesitated. "Weird how?"
"Like the air's heavier," Riku said, pressing his palm to his chest dramatically. "Or maybe I'm just hungry."
Haruto didn't smile this time.
At lunch, they sat by the window. Outside, a convoy of dark vehicles passed slowly, blocking traffic without sirens. People stopped talking as they went by.
Riku leaned forward. "Those aren't police."
"No," Haruto agreed.
"What are they then?"
Haruto thought of the word situation again.
"I don't know."
That wasn't a lie. It was worse.
After school, Haruto didn't go straight home.
He told himself he was just taking a longer route. That curiosity had nothing to do with it.
The river district was quieter than usual. Shops were open, but customers were few. A memorial of flowers and bottles had been cleared away, leaving only faint discoloration on the pavement.
Haruto stood at the edge, looking down at the water.
The current was calm. Too calm.
His wrist pulsed faintly.
He remembered Riku's words from yesterday. The body didn't look normal.
"Oi."
Haruto turned.
An old man sat on a folding chair near the bridge, fishing rod in hand, line unmoving. His face was deeply lined, eyes sharp despite his age.
"You shouldn't be here," the man said.
"I live nearby," Haruto replied.
The man snorted. "That's not what I meant."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"You know," the old man said finally, "this river wasn't always called Akai Kawa."
Haruto's breath caught. "What was it called before?"
The man didn't answer immediately. He reeled in his line empty then cast it back into the water.
"Names change when people want to forget," he said. "But the river remembers."
Haruto looked down at his wrist again.
When he looked back up, the old man was gone.
The chair remained.
Empty.
That night, Haruto dreamed.
Not of monsters. Not of blood.
He dreamed of standing in a long white corridor, doors lining both sides. Each door had a number. Some were small. Some were impossibly large.
At the end of the corridor, a voice asked him a single question.
What are you willing to become useful for?
He woke up before he could answer.
His wrist burned.
Outside, far away, something moved slowly, methodically toward him.