The fire alarm stopped screaming at 9:04 AM.
It didn't fade out. It didn't wind down. It cut off mid-wail, like someone had reached into the air and yanked the plug.
Silence slammed into the hallway.
Ren stood frozen among a river of annoyed students pouring back toward their classrooms. Shoes squeaked on linoleum. Lockers slammed. Someone complained loudly about a math test. Reality stitched itself together with ugly, ordinary sounds.
Too ordinary.
Jian grabbed Ren by the elbow and pulled him into a side corridor near the art rooms—the kind nobody used unless they were lost or hiding.
"Don't talk," Jian muttered, checking the corners. "Don't answer questions. If anyone asks, you're dizzy."
"I am dizzy," Ren whispered, leaning against the cold metal lockers. "And I think a dead kid just tried to enroll behind me."
"Not funny," Jian said. Then, after a beat, "Okay. A little funny. But also very bad."
They stopped near a row of lockers painted with peeling murals. Jian glanced around, then pressed two fingers against the metal frame. The corridor lights flickered once—barely noticeable.
"Privacy bubble," Jian said, dropping his hand. "We've got maybe three minutes before the ambient noise breaks it."
Ren rubbed his shoulder. The ache was dull but constant. "He said attendance was waking him up. Every time they say his name."
"I know." Jian rubbed his face with both hands, looking exhausted. "I was hoping you misheard."
"I didn't."
"Yeah," Jian sighed. "You never do."
The air in the corridor felt… attentive. It wasn't the heavy pressure of a ghost. It felt like a room waiting for someone important to speak.
Ren swallowed. "So what happens now?"
Jian hesitated.
That was new.
"Now," Jian said carefully, "the system escalates."
"Escalates how?"
Jian opened his backpack and pulled out the battered notebook. It shuddered slightly in his hands, like a living thing settling into a comfortable position.
"Roll call is a low-level ritual," Jian explained. "Names. Presence. Confirmation. You disrupted it by acknowledging the glitch."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Jian cut in. "Intent doesn't matter. Impact does."
He flipped the notebook open.
The page was blank.
Then, ink bloomed across it on its own, soaking into the paper to form crisp, blocky letters.
NOTICE OF CONTACT
Ren felt his scalp prickle. "That's new."
"That's bad," Jian said. "It means they're being… courteous."
The letters shifted.
RECIPIENT: REN (CLASSIFICATION: ANOMALY / PROVISIONAL)
Ren let out a weak laugh. "I like how they didn't bother with my last name."
Jian didn't smile.
The page continued to write itself.
SUBJECT: REQUEST FOR VOLUNTARY COMPLIANCE
Ren stared. "That's it?"
"No," Jian said grimly. "That's the threat."
The notebook vibrated. Jian held it steady as more text appeared.
YOU ARE CREATING PERSISTENT NARRATIVE INSTABILITY.
THIS IS INCONVENIENT.
Ren blinked. "Inconvenient?"
"They hate inefficiency," Jian muttered. "You're a loose cable in a server room. They want to plug you in."
The air pressure dropped slightly. Ren's ears popped.
From the far end of the corridor, footsteps approached.
Ren tensed. "Someone's coming."
"No," Jian said quietly. "Something's arriving."
The footsteps were wrong.
They were perfectly synced. No lag. No echo. Each step landed exactly when it should, crisp and sharp, like reality itself was escorting the sound.
A figure rounded the corner.
She looked like a substitute teacher. Mid-forties. Sensible shoes. Grey cardigan over a white blouse. Hair pulled into a neat, severe bun. She carried a manila folder tucked under one arm and a pen in the other.
She smiled pleasantly.
"Good morning," she said.
The words landed exactly when her lips moved.
Ren's stomach dropped.
Jian straightened, all humor gone. "You're early."
The woman adjusted her glasses. "We were already in the neighborhood."
She turned her attention to Ren.
Her eyes were wrong. Not glowing. Not black. Just… too focused. They didn't blink enough. Like a camera lens locked onto a subject.
"You must be Ren," she said warmly. "I'm Ms. Kline. I handle Compliance."
Ren swallowed. "Compliance with… what?"
Ms. Kline smiled wider. "With not breaking the world, dear."
She glanced at Jian. "May I?"
Jian hesitated, looked at Ren, then stepped aside.
Ms. Kline walked closer. The corridor seemed to subtly rearrange itself to give her space. Lockers straightened. Lights brightened a fraction. The distortion fled from her presence.
She held out the manila folder.
On the front, stamped in red ink: POLITE REQUEST.
Ren didn't take it.
"What happens if I say no?" he asked.
Ms. Kline tilted her head, considering. "We prefer not to discuss outcomes that involve screaming."
"That's not an answer," Ren said.
She nodded. "Fair."
She opened the folder herself.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it was a printed timetable.
Ren recognized it instantly. His school schedule. Periods. Classrooms. Lunch break. Everything.
Except one addition at the top.
PERIOD 0 — 6:45 AM
LOCATION: BELOW
Ren's throat went dry. "Below what?"
Ms. Kline tapped the paper. "Below the city. Below the noise. Below the part that keeps forgetting."
Jian stepped forward. "You can't just requisition him. He hasn't agreed to the bylaws."
Ms. Kline sighed. "Custodian Xu, your role is advisory. Please don't overstep."
"Go to hell," Jian snapped.
Ms. Kline smiled pleasantly. "We're already there."
She looked back at Ren. "This is a voluntary request. Attend. Listen. Learn the boundaries. In return—"
She flipped the page.
A second sheet showed a familiar name.
EVAN MORALES — STATUS: PENDING
Ren's heart lurched. "You can fix him?"
"We can… refile him," Ms. Kline said carefully. "Reduce the suffering. Prevent repeated awakenings. Put him somewhere quiet."
Ren clenched his fists. "And if I don't?"
Ms. Kline closed the folder. "Then the system will continue correcting errors. And errors are usually deleted."
Ren thought of Evan's tired smile in the hallway. Every time they say my name, I wake up again.
"That's not a choice," Ren said quietly.
Ms. Kline's smile softened. It looked almost genuine.
"It is," she said. "You just don't like the options."
The corridor lights flickered once.
Ms. Kline stepped back. "Period Zero. Tomorrow morning. You'll find the entrance. It usually looks like a janitor's closet that shouldn't be there."
She paused. "Oh—and Ren?"
"Yes?"
"Please stop helping lost ghosts at bus stops. It's charming, but it creates expectations."
Then she turned and walked away.
Her footsteps stayed perfectly in sync until she rounded the corner—and vanished between one step and the next.
The pressure lifted instantly. The hallway noise rushed back in all at once—laughter, lockers, life.
Ren sagged against the lockers, shaking. "They're recruiting me."
"They're containing you," Jian corrected grimly. "Big difference."
Ren looked at the empty corridor. "If I go… I might be able to help Evan."
Jian didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly, "Yeah. That's why they asked nicely."
Ren closed his eyes.
Tomorrow morning. Below.
"Jian," Ren said. "You're coming with me."
Jian snorted. "Absolutely not. I hate Period Zero."
Ren opened his eyes. "I'll bring a spray bottle."
Jian hesitated. He looked at the notebook, then at Ren.
"…What time did she say?"