Monday arrived, damp and overcast, the kind of morning where the clouds seemed to press against the city's shoulders, heavy with unspoken expectation. Haruto moved through the streets with measured steps, his schoolbag balanced precisely on one shoulder, the strap cutting lightly into his skin.
He noticed the small changes immediately. A new security camera perched on a streetlight, angled just so. Its lens glinted in the faint light. A public display board had been reprogrammed overnight, cycling through municipal notices without context. People glanced briefly, then looked away.
Haruto did not. He cataloged each anomaly silently, storing them in the mental ledger he had begun months ago.
Riku met him halfway, umbrella in hand. Unlike previous days, he seemed tense, distracted. Haruto could tell even before Riku opened his mouth.
"They've been asking more questions at my house," Riku said quietly as they walked. "About… about me. About school. About you."
Haruto didn't respond immediately. Instead, he adjusted his grip on his bag, keeping his shoulders straight.
"Any of it make sense?" Riku asked, glancing sideways. "I mean… they're all adults, but they're acting like…" He faltered. "Like we're under observation or something."
"You're not wrong," Haruto said simply.
Riku gave a short laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Great. Glad to have confirmation from you."
Haruto didn't respond further. Words often complicated things. Silence was safer.
At school, the new measures were subtle but unmistakable. Certain hallways were cordoned off with temporary dividers; surveillance devices were quiet but present. Teachers moved with extra caution, and even the substitute staff seemed aware of invisible rules they didn't speak aloud.
During homeroom, a note appeared on every desk: an anonymous instruction to "Maintain accurate records of your daily routines."
No explanation. No signature.
Haruto read it carefully. Folded it once, then slipped it into his bag without comment. Riku noticed.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"Just instructions," Haruto replied. "Ignore it."
Riku hesitated but obeyed.
Lunch was tense. Haruto and Riku sat by the window, watching raindrops trace paths down the glass. People on the streets below moved mechanically, stepping around puddles as if aware of a watchful gaze.
Riku nudged a piece of bread toward Haruto. "Weird how everyone's acting like this is normal," he said. "Like nothing's wrong."
Haruto tore off a bite of bread without looking at him. "Because it's easier to pretend," he said. "Otherwise, everyone panics."
Riku stared out the window, quiet for once, letting Haruto's words settle.
After school, Haruto took the long route home. His steps were deliberate, slowing at every intersection, observing, cataloging. The restricted river zone glimmered faintly in the distance, barricades still standing, cameras rotating almost imperceptibly.
A man in dark clothing walked along the edge of the barrier, moving slowly, scanning the surrounding streets as if the city were a chessboard. Haruto noted the rhythm of his steps. Adjusted his own pace to match the surveillance patterns.
A pulse ran across his wrist. Faint. Subtle. Enough to remind him that he was being counted. Measured. Recorded.
He walked on.
At home, his mother was unusually quiet. She sat at the table, a stack of forms in front of her, pens at the ready. The envelope from last week remained unopened.
"They'll ask again," she said softly when he entered. "I can feel it. Tomorrow. Or the day after. They want to see how we respond."
Haruto nodded, already aware. "We respond quietly," he said.
"Yes," she agreed. "Quietly."
He helped her organize the papers. Each envelope, each slip, felt heavier tonight. Not because of its contents, but because of the anticipation it carried.
Later, he lay on the bed, listening to the city. Streetlights hummed. Vehicles passed silently. Somewhere, a door opened and closed without a sound.
He rolled up his sleeve and stared at the red mark. It remained unchanged. Patient. Waiting.
And so was he.