The fluorescent buzz of the hallway felt louder after the rain, like the school was exhaling secrets it couldn't hold. Kai adjusted his backpack strap, weaving through the post-lunch rush—students glued to phones, gossip bubbling about the latest Mori trial update: Ex-CEO's Banker Pal Turns State's Witness. Embers, as Emiko called them. Kai's phone had pinged that morning with her nudge: Locker rumors brewing. Prank or payback? Dig light. Vague, but pointed. Seika's halls thrived on urban legends; the latest—"Locker 13's haunted"—had started as a freshman dare, escalating to full-on avoidance. Notes appearing inside, lockers slamming shut unaided, whispers of a "ghost student" seeking revenge.
Kai paused at his locker—number 7, blissfully boring—when Sora barreled in, face flushed like he'd sprinted from math. "Dude! It's real. Locker 13—opened it during cleanup duty. Note inside: 'Pay for the shadows.' Creepy font, like horror manga. And get this—smells like old film developer."
"Developer?" Kai's ears pricked. Darkroom echo from the scandal—Hayashi's haunt. But prank likely; post-Mori, kids loved aping the drama. "Who found it?"
"Me and the janitor squad. Riku's on it—soccer cleanup. He freaked, said it's the ghost of that overdose kid from '87. Mori's curse or something." Sora leaned in, voice dropping. "But Aiko swears she saw a shadow last night—flicker by the lockers after rehearsal."
Yumi materialized from the crowd, ponytail swinging, a stack of lit club flyers under arm. "Shadow? Or stage fog? Drama kids are milking this—'Phantom of the Lockers' improv bit. But the note... I glimpsed it. Handwritten, ink bleed like cheap pen. Not printed."
Aiko caught up, sketchpad tucked under elbow, charcoal dust on her jeans. "Milking? It's gold for art club posters. But yeah—shadow was too solid. Tall, hooded. Slipped a paper in 13 before bolting." Her eyes sparkled mischief. "Our next case? Ghostbusters: Seika Edition."
Kai chuckled, but his mind ticked. Prank fit the post-scandal vibe—catharsis via chills. But Emiko's ping? Payback potential. Mori's web had tendrils: disgruntled exes, unpaid IOUs. "Locker 13's history? Quick dig."
Sora pulled his phone, scrolling a cached forum thread. "Old post: Belonged to Hiroki Sato—'87 kid. Overdose spot was the gym, but locker held his 'stash.' Emptied post-incident, but rumors say cursed. Now? Transfers use it till they bail."
Sato. The ghost from the negatives—Hayashi's protégé, Mori's collateral. Kai's gut twisted; the arc closed, but ripples. "We check it. After school. Notes, prints—details don't haunt."
The bell rang, scattering them to classes. Afternoon blurred: history droning on feudal ghosts (irony), chem lab fumes stirring darkroom memories. By dismissal, the hall thinned to echoes, janitors clanking carts like spectral chains. Locker 13 squatted mid-row, dented olive green, combo lock dangling loose—code long leaked.
Kai knelt, gloved hand (Sora's winter mittens) probing the vent. Dust motes danced in his phone light. Inside: bare metal, faint scratches like claw marks, and taped to the door—a fresh note, folded crisp. Shadows hide debts. Pay or join them. —W
"W?" Yumi echoed, snapping a pic. "Not Mori's style—too poetic. And the tape: fresh Scotch, no residue age."
Aiko peered closer. "Handwriting slants lefty. And look—smudged corner. Ink transfer from glove? Cheap latex, like cleaning crew."
Sora shuddered theatrically. "Ghost with a day job. Or bully flex—seniors hazing newbies, Mori-fan remix."
Kai peeled the note gentle, unfolding: block letters, but tremor in the 'S'. Fear? Or flair? Back: faint watermark, like recycled paper—school stationary, but yellowed. "Not new. Pulled from archives? Or hoarded."
Footsteps echoed—Riku, soccer bag slung, jogging up. "Tanaka? You too? Coach said investigate—team's locker row next. Prank's killing morale."
Kai pocketed the note sample. "Seen anything? Shadows, notes?"
Riku shrugged, but eyes flicked nervous. "Nah. But... my buddy got one yesterday: 'Watch the fields.' Thought spam. Now? Creepy." He pulled a crumpled paper: Fields reap what shadows sow. —W
Pattern. Kai's brain slotted: Locker 13—Sato's shadow. Fields? Soccer pitch, where Riku ruled. Personal. "W—initial? Or warning?"
Yumi's phone buzzed—group LINE exploding with pics: more notes in band lockers (Melodies echo unpaid sins), debate club (Words bury debts). Bullying ring? Or targeted hits?
"Meet at the konbini," Kai decided. "Map the notes—patterns."
The neon-lit shop was sanctuary: steaming ramen cups, Sora inhaling noodles like intel. Aiko sketched a web on napkins—lockers clustered by clubs, notes thematic (art: "Canvases bleed old ink"; lit: "Pages turn on betrayers"). All signed W, paper consistent.
"Watermark's faint—'Seika Admin Supplies'," Yumi noted, magnifying a photo. "Pulled from Nakamura's office? Post-raid scraps."
Emiko's ember. Kai texted her: Locker notes—W? Mori link? Reply pinged: Watanabe. Ex-employee, fired '88 for whistleblowing. Grudge on Sato donors. Watch—hurtful, not harmful. But confront soft.
Watanabe. Kai searched his mental files—Dad's old case scribbles: Watanabe, janitor, saw the handover. Silenced. Disgruntled ghost, literal.
"Janitor crew," Kai said, pieces clicking. "Access, grudges. Notes as payback—expose without fists?"
Sora slurped. "Heartfelt haunting? Lame villain origin."
Aiko tapped the napkin. "But why now? Mori bust stirred him. Bullying? Nah—therapy via terror."
Dusk fell as they biked back, halls dim. Janitor's closet—unlocked, mop reek. Files inside: logs, keys, a waste bin overflowing with yellowed stationary. And there: a lefty pen, cap chewed, beside a half-written note: Shadows—
Busted. But the door creaked—Watanabe, mid-60s, stooped frame filling the frame, eyes weary under fluorescent. Not menacing; mournful. "Kids. Knew you'd sniff."
Kai held up the note sample. "Mr. Watanabe? The whispers—Sato? Mori?"
He sagged against the wall, sigh ragged. "Whispers? Screams, boy. I saw it—'87, handover in the gym. Drugs for 'edge.' Hiroki—good kid, my nephew's age—took the fall. I spoke up; Nakamura buried me in warnings. Fired. Lived quiet, till your bust. Thought—notes'd stir 'em, make 'em remember. No harm. Just... echo."
Sora deflated. "Dude. Therapy's cheaper."
Watanabe's eyes glistened. "Echoes hurt, son. Your dad—knew. Told me once: 'Details heal slow.' But you... you finished it. Notes were my last stand."
Kai's chest tightened—heartfelt, indeed. Dad's mantra, twisted. "Stand down. We tell the story—anonymous. Your side. No cuffs."
Aiko nodded. "Art club mural? 'Echoes of Seika'—your words."
Watanabe's laugh cracked. "Mercy. Alright. Shred the rest?"
They did, bin flames in the sink—catharsis smoke. Hall quieted, lockers still.
Outside, stars pricked the sky. Yumi nudged Kai. "Resolve tested. Soft close."
Sora fist-bumped Watanabe. "Ghost retired. Beers on us—in ten years."
Emiko's text: Well played. Next: Bike crash echo? Or let it rest?
Kai smiled. Everyday resolve: bend, don't break.
End of Chapter 11
(Next chapter tease: A "mysterious" bike crash near the school gates revives Dad's hit-and-run shadows, but the real culprit's a grieving parent—leading to an emotional alliance that uncovers a small but poignant loose end from the past.)