Ren stood there for a full thirty seconds, eyes still on the grain of the wood, as if the pattern might rearrange itself into a reply. It didn’t. His fingers curled once, twice, then slowly relaxed. Not from peace—but fatigue. His breath had returned to a regular pace, but the residue of his father's voice still clung to his skin like sweat.
He didn’t remember walking back to his room. Just the weight of the air pressing against his limbs, like he was moving underwater.
The door clicked behind him. The lights stayed off. Only the blue indicator on the Sigma tablet blinked—a patient pulse, too steady to be innocent.
Ren didn’t sit. Didn’t think. Just reached for the curtains and yanked them half-open. Dawn crept in reluctantly, painting the room in weak greys and fractured shadows.
His uniform lay folded on the chair, untouched since yesterday. He stared at it. Something about the symmetry irritated him.
A sliver of yellow light filtered beneath the dorm door. Ren exited, moving like a ghost through sterilized corridors. At the intersection, a panel labeled “Maintenance Transit” beckoned. He tapped a hidden disruptor against the scanner—his improvised skeleton‐key. The latch clicked. Beyond lay a spiral staircase descending into the Academy’s underbelly.
The steps were cold cement; each footfall echoed. Memories of Hinata’s trembling hands at the core breach flickered in his mind. Kaoru’s last message—“Trust no one”—haunted every descent.
At the bottom, he reached a gray hatch: “Audit Control Chamber—Authorized Only.” He scanned his badge; green light. The door slid open, revealing a dim corridor lined with steel plates. Overhead, flickering fluorescents hummed. Labels on each door glowed faintly: “External Node Logs,” “Proxy Metadata,” “Suspect Interventions.” He navigated to “External Node Logs,” entered a code, and pushed the door open.
Inside, monitors displayed scrolling hexadecimal columns. The central terminal stood idle—its black screen a lull before storm. Ren approached and tapped his credentials. Biometric verification glowed: heart rate 78 bpm, cortisol 29 μg/dL—nominal. A prompt blinked:
Enter Log Query
He typed:
> Kaoru_ShiniomiYA_Upload_0502_2354
File decrypted: “Cerisier_V2.0_VentSpecs.pdf.” He opened it. Onscreen, high‐resolution blueprints of Academy vent shafts materialized—cooling‐loop dimensions annotated in shaky handwriting. A faint watermark: Kaoru’s sigil.
A secondary prompt blinked: “Redirect Query? [Y/N]”. He pressed “N.” He copied the file to a private shard and closed the terminal.
He stared at the schematic: a narrow “Blue–Delta” conduit running directly under Misaki’s office, bypassing key SRS sensors. Why would Kaoru leak this? To expose a vulnerability—or to set up someone? The timestamp—05:02 AM—aligned exactly with the intruders’ breach at 05:03 AM. Was Kaoru complicit or framed?
Footsteps echoed outside. Ren ducked under the terminal desk as a patrol drone drifted by, sensors scanning. Seconds later, the corridor returned to silence.
He pocketed the shard and retraced his steps. Upstairs, light streamed into corridors. Morning announcements chimed faintly: “All students to Dining Hall.” Ren melted into the sea of uniforms, slate‐gray faces moving in formation. Every pair of eyes felt potential threat.
Ren slipped into the dining hall’s tiled expanse, the stench of nutrient broth heavy in the air. He spotted Hinata near a corner table—she wore a white Spartan expression, hair plastered from sleep. He sat opposite her without a word.
She offered a small, anxious smile. “Any news on Kaoru?” she whispered.
He unclasped a foil‐wrapped protein bar from his pocket and set it before her. “She’s been framed. I’ll prove it.” His voice was flat—controlled, but brittle at the edges. Hinata’s fingers brushed his hand—a fleeting anchor. “Be safe,” she breathed.
He nodded once, then rose, leaving half‐eaten rations behind. The hall’s fluorescent glare felt harsh, exposing his fatigue. Secure in Kaoru’s notebook remnants and Shirō’s encrypted disk—both tucked in his inner coat pocket—he slipped away, blending with the tide.
Ren entered Lecture Hall C, taking a seat midway up the risers. He scanned the SRS campus map overlaid in his HUD: tonight’s rendezvous—District 14 at 23:59—blinked ominously. Seventeen hours remained. Around him, classmates murmured. Onstage, Professor Sareena Kuroda’s voice carried authority:
“When an external node falters, it cascades—each breached checkpoint amplifies vulnerability. If ‘Blue–Delta’ is compromised, regional feeds reroute, sowing chaos.”
Ren’s gaze flickered to the schematic in his mind—Kaoru’s leak made sense: she sought to expose that very chasm. But who forced her hand? He closed his eyes, feeling a subtle tremor in his lungs—anticipatory dread.
Cafeteria block B. North Annex. No camera blind spots, but signal compression is artificially high.
Ren’s tray held a half-sliced apple and an untouched portion of synth-protein. He sat beneath the shadow of a malfunctioning vent—cool air blew erratically across his neck. Opposite him, Hinata didn’t speak. Her hands traced invisible patterns across the table.
“The rumor’s spreading,” she finally said. Her voice was careful—flattened, pre-processed.
“Which one?” Ren didn’t look up.
“Kaoru’s annotations. People are saying she rewrote the V2.0 logs.”
He gave a slow nod. “Who started it?”
“Takamura. But I nudged it along.”
That made him pause. His eyes lifted—first toward her face, then lower, to her satchel.
“What did you do?”
She didn’t smile. “Nothing illegal. I just… edited the post queue. Inserted three comments under different alphanames. Made them sound uncertain. Curious. Just enough for the accelerant.”
“That’s… not nothing.”
“You said we needed fog.” Her voice trembled on the word we, but steadied fast. “So I made some.”
Ren leaned back. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was loaded. Controlled dissonance.
“And the audit chamber?” he asked after a moment.
Hinata unzipped the side pocket of her jacket. Inside was a wrapped glucose bar and a thin card—dark blue, no markings.
“Shirō passed me a magnetic ghost key. Temporarily spoofs Level 2 clearance on unused sectors. We have six minutes max before it desyncs.”
“You’re walking into a penal zone,” Ren said.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being furniture.”
The bell rang overhead. It shattered the moment without ceremony. Ren didn’t respond. He just folded his tray in half and slid the encrypted shard into his sleeve.
“Third floor. Block Delta. 13:00 sharp. Don’t be seen.”
“I know the rules,” Hinata replied, standing up. “You’re not the only one learning to break them.”
Ren returned to the dining hall for a quick lunch. The midday crowd was a living barrier; he instinctively avoided eye contact. He found Hinata again. She slid him a small brace of encrypted snacks—“For focus later,” she said. He offered a fleeting smile. She slipped him a folded slip of paper: “Rumor—Aiko Misaki to lead after‐hours sweep in District 14. Be careful.”
Ren scanned the slip: scrawled letters dripping in urgency. “Thanks,” he whispered. As he stood, he noticed a group of lower‐year students clustered at the far end, listening to an older student warn them, “Stay in dorms tonight—SRS is on red alert.” Ren’s stomach clenched. The blackout they planned would trigger a campus lockdown. Collateral damage was inevitable.
Ren slipped into Neurosynch Dynamics lecture late. Professor Ikezumi lectured on “Cognitive feedback loops in high‐stress environments.” Ren briefly considered the irony—his own neural sync was “Conflict High,” as displayed on his HUD. He wrote a note in his notebook: “Tonight, District 14—retrieve node logs → bury real override data → vanish.” Shirō’s nod from the second row confirmed readiness.
After lecture, Ren and Shirō reconvened in a restricted archive chamber. Holographic shelves glowed with student dossiers and audit patterns. Shirō synced his datapad: “Misaki’s patterns—if we slip in during her 23:00 audit window, her sensors shift to the east ridge. That’s our opening.” He pointed to a timeline: “She switches her node sweep 15 minutes before midnight.”
Ren updated his plan:
- 20:30 PM – Exit via maintenance corridors to subway tunnel.
- 21:00 PM – Plant decoy data at Gion Street payphone.
- 21:15 PM – Meet Kaoru at “RINSE & RECHARGE” sign.
- 21:30 PM – Infiltrate Tech Salvage warehouse → extract real node logs.
- 22:30 PM – Enter Blue–Delta vent → upload proof under Misaki’s office.
- 23:45 PM – Evacuate via service elevator → dorm.
Shirō handed Ren two Sigma disruptors and a set of coded goggles to bypass thermal sensors. Ren felt their weight—small, brutal instruments. He slid one into his coat; the other strapped to Shirō’s wrist.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Be precise,” Shirō warned. “One mistake and every camera in District 14 will ping.”
Ren nodded, steeling himself.
Ren returned to his dorm, gathering gear: Kaoru’s battered leather notebook—now annotated with his notes—two disruptors, three data shards, and the coded goggles. He scribbled in the notebook:
“Raku 714 = external hack. Proof: Cerisier timestamps. Tonight: expose truth.”
He closed the book, touching its frayed cover. A flicker of doubt: if Kaoru were compromised, he would lose more than trust. He shook it off. With Shirō on watch, he had a chance.
In the dining hall, Ren found Hinata waiting, eyes wide. He sat; she slid him an insulated bowl.
“I heard Misaki restrict evening curfew—District 14 is off‐limits after 22:00,” she whispered. “Some say she suspects insurgents.”
Ren’s grip tightened on his chopsticks. He needed to move sooner. He recalled the hallway announcement: “Curfew in effect at 22:00—no exceptions.”
He nodded, swallowing a mouthful of broth. “Thanks.” He rose, leaving half the bowl.
As he turned, he spotted Misaki at the far end, scanning IDs on a holo‐console. Her gaze flicked to Ren, cold as steel. He froze for a heartbeat; she already looked away. His guts twisted: suspicion was a razor.
Ren ascended to the rooftop garden, under dusk’s bruised sky. The bamboo leaves whispered in a humid breeze. He examined his gear one last time: disruptors online, shards sealed, goggles charged. He traced the vent route on Kaoru’s notebook by the waning light.
Shadows lengthened. He glimpsed Academy drones hovering near the rooftop edge—infrared eyes scanning. He ducked behind a planter as they swept past. This would be his last moment of calm before intrusion. He closed his eyes, letting the night’s hush fill him.
In Academy’s west wing, an unmarked service exit led to a derelict subway tunnel. Ren and Shirō slipped through just as the campus lights dimmed to twilight. The corridor ahead smelled of ozone and damp tile.
“Sensors shift at 23:00,” Shirō reminded in a low voice. “We have thirty minutes to plant the decoy at Gion Street.”
Ren nodded, adrenaline flickering through his veins. They stepped into the tunnel’s mouth—faint luminescence from flickering bulbs revealing cracked tiles and old graffiti: “SRS will save us.” The irony was bitter.
They emerged onto Gion Street as night fully claimed the city. Vendors hastied to pack stalls; neon signs sputtered amid trash heaps. Motorbikes roared past, stirring dust in their headlights. Everywhere, the pulse of District 14 hummed—loud, ugly, alive.
Ren and Shirō melded into the throng. At Ren’s signal, Shirō slipped a decoy chip into the payphone’s hidden slot. The click echoed beneath the neon din. A faint hum from a nearby SRS scanner confirmed the dummy feed was live—an “illusion node” looping false data.
Ren thumbed his disruptor. “We have 45 minutes until the next sweep. Stay sharp.”
They moved to the “RINSE & RECHARGE” sign. Under flickering red light, Kaoru waited—not a trace of fear on her angular face. Her auburn hair caught neon embers. She held her battered notebook like a shield.
Kaoru’s eyes flicked to Shirō’s wrist—“Disruptor armed?”
Shirō nodded, voice low: “Thirty‐second window.”
Ren retrieved two micro‐shards from his cuff—Cerisier logs and Shirō’s timestamp proof. “Upload these to node console at the warehouse. Then we extract raw override chain.”
Kaoru slid them into a concealed packet on her coat. “Understood. Let’s go.”
They navigated narrow side streets lined with discarded drones and burned‐out holo‐posters. Neon flickered overhead—electric blues, pulsing reds—painting their silhouettes in pulsating halos. Static hissed from hidden speakers, like ghosts whispering warnings.
Ahead, the warehouse loomed: battered corrugated steel, a single red bulb blinking “TECH SALVAGE & REPAIR.” Ren counted three cameras—two fixed at eye level, one overhead swiveling. Pressing against a graffiti‐marred wall, Kaoru knelt beside a side door panel.
Ren exhaled. Kaoru’s gloved fingers peeled back the rusted cover, exposing wires tangled like hissing snakes. “Three…two…one…” She pressed a nickel‐sized switch. The red bulb flickered and died; cameras jerked off‐line.
Ren lunged, yanking the door open. Darkness swallowed them—thick with oil and decay.
A sulfurous haze choked Ren’s lungs—burnt circuitry and stale coffee mingling with damp cement. Rows of server racks loomed like silent colossi, fans stuttering in distress. Overhead vents dripped condensation onto grated catwalks—each splash echoing like a heartbeat in the void. Monitors glowed pale cyan, looping SRS logs for District 14; Aiko’s “EXT_FEED_CTRL” interface blinked in lurid orange boxes—evidence of ongoing interference.
Ren slapped on his Sigma glasses. A HUD grid lit up:
NODE LAYOUT
? Entry Corridor (12 m)
? Pressure Sensors: Sequential (01 → 04)
? Heat Traps: Field 3, 7, 9 (Active)
? Console: Aisle B, Position 03
He crouched low, tiptoeing between hovering drones patrolled by nullified signal pods—silent watchers that still detected thermal signatures. Kaoru followed, fingertips grazing a humming server as if drawing courage from its core.
“There,” Kaoru whispered, nodding toward a half‐shattered monitor. Ren crept to the console, pried open a port, and slid in Kaoru’s encrypted Cerisier shard. Data cascaded: override signatures stamped from “Raku 714,” timestamped at 04:58 AM. The monitor flickered: “OVERRIDE REGISTERED.”
Alarms erupted—red strobes fractured the darkness. Local scanners snapped alive, hunting thermal profiles. Ren’s heart thundered: 102 bpm. Steam hissed overhead.
He jerked back. “It’s done—”
“Move!” Kaoru snapped. She darted down a corridor of cables, boots clattering. Ren sprinted behind, weaving between serpentine wires. Generators roared as backup power clicked in.
At corridor’s end, Ren heaved a maintenance hatch free. Metal scraped his jacket as he dropped into the shaft. Darkness pressed—a suffocating cocoon. He crawled on metal rungs, vibrations echoing from above. Kaoru’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “Thirty seconds. Go!”
Ren spilled into a narrow alley choked with refuse: dents of overturned bins, bullet-casing debris, fragments of broken neon tubing. The red blink of “TECH SALVAGE & REPAIR” still pulsed behind him. He bolted across cracked pavement, head low, boots skidding. A lone drone’s spotlight swept past, missing him by mere inches.
He slipped between dumpsters, heart hammering—108 bpm. Shadows danced under flickering neon. He reached the payphone booth and slid a second chip—Shirō’s decoy—into the hidden slot. The click echoed beneath the neon din.
Gion Street roared in neon chaos: vendors calling last orders, stray cats weaving under parked scooters, horns tearing the air. Ren pressed himself against a storefront alcove. His chest burned; sweat stung his eyes.
Opposite, Aiko Misaki emerged—statuesque, composed, her figure fractured by neon shards. Ren’s breath caught. He stepped forward. “I see you.”
Aiko’s thin-lipped smile was calm as a scalpel. In her gloved hand: a singed micro-chip—Shirō’s decoy data. “Did you really think a dummy loop would hold? I intercepted the decoy at 09:22 PM. I patched my override—live.”
Ren’s shoulders slumped. “Then the node still thinks we’re streaming. You’ll chase phantoms until sunrise.”
Aiko’s gaze remained impassive. She drew a second chip—this one real: Cerisier logs with “Raku 714” signatures. Neon flickered in her dark eyes. “You left this behind.”
Ren’s breath rattled. “That… never factored into our plan.”
Aiko folded the chip into her palm. “Plans evolve. You’re desperate now. I want your next move. No instincts—predict shadows or die in silence.”
With that, she melted into the crowd—her form splintered by neon. Ren stood still, chest heaving, mind reeling: she had not only undone them, she possessed the one proof that could condemn Kaoru. His victory had become ash.
Ren ducked into a side street—no vendor, no neon, just cracked walls and broken crates. Shirō emerged from shadow, face bone-white. “She’s one step ahead. We need Plan C.”
Ren exhaled through clenched teeth. “Plan C: Blue-Delta vent beneath Misaki’s office. Upload proof into her audit node—rewrite the logs. We bury her blade in her own system.”
Shirō’s eyes narrowed. “We have ten minutes before their thermal sweeps tighten.”
Ren nodded, fumbling for the coded goggles. “Lead the way.” They melted into dark corridors toward the subway tunnel.
The tunnel’s air was stale, thick with ozone and dust. Ren’s steps echoed as the last subway cars rumbled past. Concrete walls bore layers of graffiti—“SRS = Salvation?” scrawled in chipped spray paint.
They slipped past a rusting service door, ascending a ladder into a fenced alley behind the Academy’s west wing. Faint neon bled through a chain-link fence—misdirection in steel. They crouched low until a silent elevator shaft hatch yawned above.
At the foot of the service gate stood an infrared sensor pad. Ren placed the decoy chip into a concealed slot—Shirō’s final disruptor. The pad glowed red, then green. The heavy gate hissed open.
Inside, the service corridors smelled of antiseptic and metal. Cameras tracked their every move. Ren led Shirō to a side hatch labeled “Roof Access—Restricted.” A swipe of Shirō’s disruptor disabled local node feeds. Lights flickered; sensors recalibrated. They ascended a narrow stairwell to the oldest ventilation shaft.
Ren peered into the Blue-Delta shaft—an iron cylinder barely shoulder-wide. He activated the coded goggles: highlighted patrol routes, live heat-trap fields. He adjusted the disruptor to a fifteen-second power kill. He flipped the switch—infrared arrays winked off; stifled clicks echoed.
In darkness, he descended, each rung pressing cold into his soles. The vent’s interior grated like rusted teeth. At the bottom, a steel plate slid away to reveal a cramped utility room under Misaki’s office.
The utility room stank of coolant and stale air. A wall of terminals flashed live SRS node data—thermal readouts, loyalty scores, and encrypted feeds. Ren scanned for “MISAKI AUDIT INTERFACE.” The terminal glowed orange.
Ren pried open a side panel and slid in Kaoru’s proof‐shard—timestamps and override logs from “Raku 714.” He typed commands to merge the data: “OVERRIDE SOURCE: EXTERNAL – CONFIRMED” appeared in bold. The system processed for seconds that stretched like hours. Then:
“LOGS REWRITTEN. KAI KIC – VICTIM.”
Misaki’s node feed would now register Kaoru as victim, not saboteur. Ren exhaled, adrenaline and relief clashing.
Suddenly, overhead lights flickered—gone. An instant later, fluorescent lamps blazed to life. A sensor panel beeped: “THERMAL ANOMALY – TWO INTRUDERS.”
Ren yanked the shard free. In the doorway, Shirō held a suppressed pistol—eyes cold. “Time to go!”
They sprinted back up the vent. Infrared cameras flared on but recorded only static—no thermal signatures. At the vent entrance, Ren reengaged the disruptor—blacks out local node feeds. He yanked the ladder and pushed the hatch closed as shouts echoed above.
Shirō tapped credentials on a keypad; the corridor’s lights sputtered. They dashed to the maintenance elevator. The doors parted in slow hiss. As they stepped inside, red emergency strobes lit the shaft; mechanical groans signaled a lockdown attempt. Ren slammed “Ground” and the elevator jolted downward.
Out of the elevator, they emerged into a vast corridor lined with biometric scanners—each camera swiveling in automated search patterns. Ren and Shirō moved at a jog, boots slapping tile. Every scanner blinked repeatedly—nodes were confused by the vent’s heat signature. They passed under a cluster of cameras; static flakes danced on the monitors.
They arrived at the main gate: a steel barrier monitored by iris scans. Ren tapped his badge—no alert. Gate parted. They slipped into a secondary corridor leading to the dorms. Behind them, sirens began a low, rising wail—midnight curfew breach.
Back in his dorm, Ren peeled off his coat and collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling’s sterile panels beamed down. On his desk lay three shards: Kaoru’s Cerisier proof, Shirō’s decoy file, Aiko’s corrupted chip. He stacked them deliberately: evidence, misdirection, threat.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
“Cerisier logs uploaded—Misaki’s audit reversed. Kaoru cleared.”
“Aiko Misaki holds the corrupted evidence—unknown next move.”
“Exfiltrate shards at 06:00 AM audit window.”
Beneath, a jagged final line: “Tonight, we defied SRS. Tomorrow, it hunts.”
He closed the notebook, fingertips brushing frayed leather. He lay back, Sigma glasses perched on the desk blinking in standby. The Academy’s sentinel eyes—dozens of cameras—watched him even in darkness. His pulse decelerated toward a fragile calm: 78 bpm.
A sudden ping echoed in his ear—an unmarked SRS alert flashing on his HUD: “NEW UPLOAD DETECTED – SOURCE: MISAKI HQ”.
Ren’s eyes snapped open. The mission was not over.
He whispered into darkness: “In silence, the next blade awaits.”
Silence swallowed him—and the chapter closed on a razor’s edge.