Kaito wasn't sure if the stillness after the incident was better or worse than the chaos itself. The classroom had been evacuated. The school claimed it was a "system hiccup." Most students were back to normal by lunchtime—laughing, scrolling through their digital feeds, already reducing the event to a joke: "Mr. Miyazaki got rage-updated, lol." But Misaki hadn't laughed. She hadn't even spoken since the shutdown alert. And Kaito… he couldn't stop shaking. Not visibly—he was good at hiding things—but inside, his nerves were running endless loops, like code without a break point.
In the corner of his vision, a familiar shimmer tried to fade into focus. His classmates saw it fully: their daily profile cards. Name, rank, system status. Kaito couldn't see any of it, but he heard the whispers.
"Dude, did Kaito's profile just get a red warning icon?"
"Wait—he has a profile now?"
"No, it's like… broken. Like corrupted."
Kaito stepped into the restroom to check the only mirror in the school that wasn't replaced by a digital facial scanner. He looked the same. Messy black hair, tired eyes, faint bags from too many nights spent staring at the ceiling. But above his reflection, just faintly—so faintly it felt like a trick of the light—was a red glitching box floating over his shoulder.
[UNDEFINED PROFILE – DANGER CLASS PENDING]
He reached out. Nothing happened. No menu, no interface. But the label flickered again. Was this a warning to others? Or… was the system starting to define him after all?
When he left the restroom, Misaki was waiting. Arms crossed. Eyes narrow. Not angry—calculating. "They updated your profile," she said.
"I don't even have a profile," Kaito replied.
"You do now. And it's not good. You're trending in the internal logs—on the admin side."
Kaito blinked. "How do you know what's on the admin side?"
Misaki didn't answer right away. She glanced around. Then, almost reluctantly, she whispered, "Because I used to have clearance."
"You—what?"
"Top 1% system score. Honor track. Fast-tracked for integration roles. I saw things most students aren't supposed to. Algorithms, learning patterns, background scanning. I even accessed the pre-update logs once." She paused. "That's how I know you're not a system failure. You're an intentional anomaly."
Kaito rubbed the back of his neck. "So I'm… what? A bug?"
"No. Bugs don't get hunted."
There was a beep in the air. Several students nearby glanced at their AR displays. One of them pointed toward Kaito and murmured, "That's the kid. From yesterday."
Another one chimed in, "My system suggested avoiding him. Said he triggered a localized system crash."
Kaito took a step back. He could feel it—the walls closing in, not literally, but socially, mentally. The system wasn't just rejecting him. It was painting a target.
"I need to disappear," he muttered.
Misaki grabbed his wrist. "No. That's exactly what they want. If you vanish, they'll call it a clean deletion. You stay visible, you make them uncomfortable. That gives us time."
Kaito looked at her. "Us?"
A flicker of something passed in her eyes. Hesitation. Doubt. Then: "Yes. Us. For now."
He didn't know if he could trust her. But he knew he couldn't trust anyone else.
Then, as if on cue, a pop-up appeared over Misaki's shoulder. Kaito couldn't see it—but she could. Her expression darkened.
[New Directive: Monitor Subject Arasaka, Kaito. Status: Potential Threat. Reward: Credit Boost + Clearance Review.]
She didn't say anything. She just stared at him for a second longer than she should have. Then turned and walked away.
Kaito stood frozen in the hallway, alone. Again.
He didn't need a system alert to know it:
His profile picture had been updated.
And it was now a red flag.