Naoya Kirigami stared at the chalkboard like it was trying to forget something. Maybe he was, too.
The math teacher droned on about sequences—monotonic, bounded, converging. Words echoed softly in the stale air of Room 2-B. Naoya sat in the third row from the window, back straight, hands folded on his desk like he was listening.
He wasn't.
He was somewhere between the humming lights above and the peeling edge of the noticeboard across the room.
The clock ticked.
2:54 PM.
Six minutes left. Not until freedom—just until the next part of the loop.
He blinked slowly. His eyes traced the edge of the chalk dust left on the board, the subtle jerk of the teacher's shoulder every time she wrote a number, the slow spin of the girl's mechanical pencil beside him. There was a rhythm to this room. A heartbeat. But it wasn't alive. Not really.
"What are we doing?"
He didn't mean the class.
He meant all of it.
Sit. Learn. Nod. Smile. Graduate. Apply. Work. Sleep.
Repeat.
Naoya didn't hate life. He just didn't feel entirely inside of it. As if everything he did was happening just slightly to the left of real. Like he was on the outside of a pane of glass, watching someone else's breath fog up the world.
He stared at the whiteboard. He tried, for no good reason, to memorize the way the number e was written—how her handwriting leaned too far forward, like it was always about to fall.
He wondered if anyone else noticed the rust spot forming under the light fixture.
He wondered if anyone else was pretending this all made sense.
The classroom's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly.
The clock ticked again.
2:55 PM.
Five minutes.
Just five more, then the same hallway, the same vending machine, the same broken crosswalk light and heavy sky and...
He sighed softly, under his breath.
He wasn't looking for something to happen.
But sometimes, when you stare at the same loop long enough, you start to hope it breaks—just to prove it can.
The bell rang.
The soft chime echoed through the corridors like a signal. Students snapped back to life—zipping bags, clattering chairs, voices rising.
Naoya stood, slid his chair back, and slung his backpack over one shoulder.
Nobody stopped him.
or called him.
Outside, the light had changed. The spring sky was dimmer now, laced with uneasy gray. Clouds moved like they were searching for something.
Naoya walked.
Past the school gate. Down the hill that always smelled faintly of rain and old pavement. He walked past the shuttered bookshop with the rusted awning. Past the convenience store with the buzzing sign. Past the vending machine that sometimes refused to take coins until the second try.
Everything the same.
Everything always the same.
Until the air crackled.
He barely had time to look up.
FLASH.
It wasn't bright—it was empty. Like someone had ripped the color out of the world for one breathless second.
There was no pain. Just—
A sharp tug behind his eyes.
A single moment stretched too long.
And then:
When Naoya opened his eyes, he was on the ground.
Face damp. Fingers twitching. Backpack half-unzipped, the contents scattered around him.
It smelled like rain and something else—something sharp, like melted plastic and static.
And then he saw it.
A translucent screen floated in front of his face—crisp white text, no frame, no device projecting it. Just there.
[SYSTEM BOOT COMPLETE]
Name: Naoya Kirigami
Age: 17
Year:2nd Year High School
Class: 2-B.
Vital Status: ALIVE.
Exception: SURVIVED
ATMOSPHERIC STRIKE
[Title Unlocked: THE OBSERVER]
[...Welcome.]
He tried to speak, but his voice cracked in his throat.
He looked around.
He was on the sidewalk near the station. No one else around. No fire. No smoke. Just wet pavement and the weird stillness that comes after a storm that didn't quite finish.
The screen hovered for another few seconds, then shifted to the top-right of his vision, faint but ever-present.
Naoya sat up slowly.
His phone was nearby—cracked screen, dimly lit.
He picked it up and checked the time.
[15:49:67]
He frowned.
Then he noticed the vending machine.
The World is Online
Where the drinks usually displayed, new lines of text blinked softly:
[Unit Type: Beverage Vendor Type-7]
[Stock: Full]
[Temp: 3.1°C]
[Power Load: Stable]
Not ads. Not graphics.
Just system logs. Real ones.
He turned his head.
The crosswalk signal displayed:
[Cycle Timer: 00:12:42]
[Error: Light Sync Delay – 0.08s]
The electric sign above the soba shop blinked:
[Backlight: Worn]
[Last Reset: 281 Days Ago]
[Brightness Level: 41%]
They weren't talking to him.
They were just showing. Broadcasting. Calm. Unbothered.
Naoya whispered, "What is this?"
His personal system window blinked softly:
[Request Received]
[System Interface: Active]
[You are currently: THE OBSERVER]
He looked around again.
Everything was reporting. Everything had data.
Like the world had always been running on some hidden code, and now he could read it.
A vending machine wasn't a vending machine—it was a device with a log. A streetlamp wasn't a light—it was a node with status reports.
Naoya Kirigami, 17 years old, average, invisible—
Now saw everything.
When he reached his apartment complex, the elevator door opened before he pressed the button.
The display above read:
[Passenger Detected: Kirigami, Naoya]
[Title: THE OBSERVER]
[Weight: Normal]
[Signal Sync: Fluctuating]
It closed behind him silently.
That night, in the dark, Naoya lay in bed. Lights off. Curtains drawn.
And still—everything glowed.
The screen on his alarm clock now read:
[17:10:45]
[Voltage: 4.9V]
[Uptime: 6 years, 2 months]
His microwave:
[Idle / Idle / Idle]
His phone:
[Listening: Passive Mode]
[Last Question: "What is this?"]
Naoya stared at the ceiling.
The system window hadn't gone away.
It still floated there, faint and cold, reminding him:
Name: Naoya Kirigami
Title: THE OBSERVER
He swallowed.
"What exactly am I supposed to observe?"
No response.
But the lights on his router blinked in a new pattern.
And for the first time in his life, Naoya felt like something had noticed him back.