The alarm went off at 6:00 AM.
Ren didn't need it. He had been staring at the ceiling since 5:30, counting the creaks in the walls and checking his shadow every ten minutes to make sure it hadn't slipped free again.
His shoulder throbbed beneath the bandages, a deep, pulsing ache that flared whenever he moved too fast. The sharp agony was gone, replaced by something heavier—like his bones were still remembering the break. Grandma had left a bowl of herbal soup on the counter, black and bitter, reeking of wet roots and smoke. He drank it in one go and gagged on the gritty sediment at the bottom.
By 6:30 AM, he was waiting at the fog-choked intersection near the old subway stairs.
The city looked unfinished. Streetlights buzzed weakly in the fog, their pale halos barely pushing back the grey morning mist.
A shape emerged from the haze, clutching a steaming cup of coffee and wearing the expression of someone who wanted to personally fight the sun.
"I hate you," Jian said. "I hate mornings. I hate Period Zero. And I especially hate that you dragged me into this."
"You didn't have to come," Ren said, shifting his backpack over his good shoulder.
"Yes, I did," Jian muttered. "Because if you die on day one, the paperwork falls on the nearest registered custodian. Which is me. So really, I'm just protecting my weekend."
Ren checked his phone. 6:40 AM.
"Where is it?" he asked. "Ms. Kline just said 'Below.'"
"It's not a place," Jian yawned. "It's a frequency. Follow me."
The school gates were still chained shut, waiting for the janitor's 7:00 AM arrival. Jian didn't even slow down. He veered around the fence toward the cafeteria's loading dock, where a rusted door labeled UTILITY ACCESS – DO NOT BLOCK hung slightly ajar.
"The boiler room?" Ren asked. "That's cliché."
"It's classic," Jian said. "Infrastructure is closer to the Underworld. Pipes, wires, shadows—anywhere the building starts to forget itself."
He pulled the door open.
Cold rushed out. Not the dry cold of winter—this was sharp, metallic, smelling of ozone, old copper, and forgotten books.
"Period Zero rule," Jian said at the threshold. "Don't answer questions unless called on. Don't make eye contact with the Teacher Assistants. And whatever you do… don't look at the other students."
"Why?"
"Because the moment you realize they aren't human," Jian whispered, "they realize you are."
He stepped into the dark.
Ren inhaled once, tightened his grip on his strap, and followed.
The hallway wasn't part of the school.
Black tiles stretched beneath his feet, polished so smooth they reflected nothing at all. The lockers were gone—replaced by towering iron filing cabinets that climbed into shadows where the ceiling should've been.
The silence wasn't empty. It was pressurized.
"Classroom 0-B," Jian murmured, checking the brass doorplates. "0-A… 0-B."
The door was heavy oak, dark with age. Yellow light glowed through its frosted glass.
Jian pushed it open.
The lecture hall spiraled downward, rows of wooden desks curving toward a central podium. Every seat was filled.
Some students looked human—hoodies, suits, an old woman knitting. Others were barely shapes at all: a man made of wet leaves, a flickering shadow, something that rustled instead of breathing.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Ren felt their attention like static on his skin.
"Sit," Jian whispered.
Ren obeyed. The wood was ice-cold.
At exactly 6:45, the air rang.
Not a bell. A gong—deep, resonant, vibrating through Ren's chest cavity.
A man stepped onto the podium.
Tweed suit. Wispy white hair. Skin like parchment.
No mouth.
The place where his lips should have been was smooth and sealed.
He set a single piece of chalk down.
His voice didn't leave a throat—it bloomed directly inside Ren's skull, dry and layered with the sound of turning pages.
"Welcome to Introductory Stabilization."
Chalk shrieked across the board.
LESSON 1: THE ANCHOR
"You are leaking," the voice droned. "Your essence is bleeding into the architecture. This is disruptive. It attracts pests."
The faceless head turned slowly.
"Most of you are here because you are dead and refuse to leave. You must learn compression or dissolve."
Then it stopped.
Facing the back row.
Facing Ren.
"And one of you is here because he is alive and refuses to die."
The wet-leaf man rustled. The flickering shadow stilled.
"An anomaly," the voice mused. "A living vessel with a necrotic core. How… educational."
The chalk snapped.
"Mr. Ren. Come forward."
Jian grabbed Ren's sleeve. "Don't. If you walk down there, you admit you're a student."
"Come," the voice commanded.
The floor trembled.
Ren stood. His legs felt submerged, each step dragging through invisible weight.
"If I don't go," he whispered, "I fail. And if I fail, Evan stays erased."
He walked the aisle.
The students didn't blink. Their attention wasn't curiosity—it was hunger.
Up close, the Professor smelled of dust and embalming fluid.
"Your soul is loud," the voice said. "It disrupts instruction."
A fresh piece of chalk was extended.
"Compress your presence into this. Failure results in erasure."
Ren took it.
Cold.
Not push, he thought. In.
The power inside him surged, jagged and furious.
Too much.
CRACK.
The chalk burst into powder.
Silence.
"Failure," the voice said. "Detention."
The floor liquefied.
Ren dropped.
No scream. No time.
As the darkness swallowed him, Jian's voice echoed faintly:
"I told you so!"