The notice wasn't there the day before.
Haruto was sure of it.
A thin metal sign had been bolted to the post at the end of the street sometime during the night, its surface still clean, edges sharp. No graffiti. No rust. The kind of thing that arrived quietly, assuming obedience.
RIVER ACCESS RESTRICTED
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
No explanation. No date. No signature.
People slowed as they passed it. Some frowned. Some pretended not to see it at all. No one stopped long enough to read it twice.
Haruto did.
He memorized the spacing of the letters, the way the bolt heads caught the light. He noted the small camera mounted above it, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
He walked on.
School adjusted itself in similar ways.
Morning assembly was canceled "until further notice." Outdoor activities were reduced. Certain corridors were closed off with temporary partitions that somehow felt permanent.
Riku leaned close during homeroom. "Feels like when a teacher leaves the room and everyone pretends they're not about to do something stupid."
Haruto stared straight ahead. "This isn't like that."
Riku followed his gaze, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. You're right."
During lunch, a new rule was announced: students were no longer allowed to gather near the windows overlooking the river-facing side of the building.
No one asked why.
Haruto noticed that the rule didn't apply to teachers.
After school, rain threatened again but never fell.
Haruto walked with Riku until the second bridge, then continued alone. He told himself it was coincidence. Habit. Nothing more.
The restricted zone was sealed with temporary fencing now, orange mesh stretched tight between metal poles. Beyond it, the river flowed the same as ever.
Indifferent.
A pair of uniformed workers stood near the fence, pretending to repair something that didn't look broken. Their posture was wrong—too alert, too balanced.
Haruto slowed.
"Hey!" one of them called. "You're not allowed past here."
"I'm not past it," Haruto replied calmly.
The man studied him for a second too long. "Don't linger."
Haruto nodded and turned away.
His wrist pulsed once. Hard.
He kept walking.
The incident happened three streets later.
A shout. Sharp. Angry.
Haruto stopped before he realized he had.
Two older boys had cornered a younger student near a closed storefront. Not a robbery. Not exactly. Something worse testing, posturing, boredom looking for a place to land.
"Give it back," the younger boy said, voice shaking.
"Or what?" one of the others laughed.
Haruto felt the familiar calculation begin automatically. Distance. Angles. Time to incapacitate.
Too fast.
He clenched his fist inside his pocket, nails biting into his palm.
Don't.
The word came unbidden. His mother's voice. Riku's. His own.
He stepped closer, letting his footsteps be heard.
"That's enough," he said.
The boys turned.
One scoffed. "Mind your business."
Haruto met his eyes.
Something passed between them. Not fear. Recognition. Like animals realizing one of them was quieter than the rest.
"Leave him," Haruto said.
The taller boy hesitated, then shoved the younger one away. "Whatever."
They walked off, laughing too loudly.
The younger boy picked up his bag with shaking hands and ran.
Haruto stood there until the street felt normal again.
His wrist burned.
That night, he dreamed of standing in shallow water.
The river barely reached his ankles, but it was red—dark, slow-moving. He could feel the pull of it even then, gentle and relentless.
On the opposite bank, figures stood watching. Not moving. Not calling out.
Waiting.
He woke before dawn, heart steady, skin cold.
His mother noticed the bruise on his palm during breakfast.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing," Haruto said.
She didn't push. She rarely did anymore.
Instead, she said, "There was another notice at work. They're asking for volunteers for a new evaluation program."
Haruto looked up. "Evaluation?"
"They say it's for community safety," she said, stirring her tea though she wasn't drinking it. "Health checks. Aptitude surveys. That kind of thing."
"Did you sign up?"
"No," she said quickly. Then, quieter, "Not yet."
Haruto nodded.
He understood what not yet meant.
On his way to bed, he paused by the window again.
From here, he couldn't see the river. Only the glow of the city, layered lights hiding darker things beneath them.
Rules were appearing overnight now.
Not shouted. Not enforced harshly.
Just… there.
Haruto lay down and stared at the ceiling crack, tracing its familiar branches.
Rivers didn't change direction quickly.
But they always reached the sea.