In the morning, the school smelled like rain. Grey, spring rain.
I arrived earlier than usual and took my seat in my usual corner — by the window, far from the chatter.
People entered one by one. Someone yawned. Someone munched on a bun.
Aoi appeared silently. Her gaze swept across the classroom, paused on me, but she said nothing.
I noticed: after the trial, people looked at each other differently.
With suspicion. With curiosity.
As if they'd realized that behind a smile could lie calculation. And behind silence — analysis.
Tokizawa approached first.
Not to me. To Aoi.
"You spoke with the supervisor after the test," he said quietly. "You know something, don't you?"
She shrugged.
"I just asked a question. He answered. All within the rules."
"You're not the kind to ask questions for no reason," he replied, then walked away.
I opened my notebook. Yesterday's note:
"The parameter may not depend on the result, but on behavior within the team."
But there was another hypothesis. One that wouldn't leave me alone:
"Aoi knew about the trial in advance. Why?"
After the second period, someone handed me a note.
No signature. No extra words.
> "If you want to know who's behind the parameter — come to Building B after the fifth period. Alone."
I read it three times.
The handwriting — neat, feminine. But I wasn't sure it was Aoi.
The fifth period dragged on endlessly. I could feel my heart pounding under my shirt.
When the bell rang, I walked out immediately.
Building B — rarely used. Meetings were sometimes held there when all the halls were full.
Now, it was empty.
On the second floor — only one light was on.
I walked in.
"Close the door," she said.
It wasn't Aoi.
Another girl. Tall, with a silver gleam in her eyes. From class 2-B.
"My name is Yuna," she said. "I'm not a spy. Not a traitor. But I need you."
I stayed silent.
"We're not the first to dig into the parameter," she continued. "But most gave up quickly. Or disappeared. Or were transferred to other classes."
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"Because I was in 2-C. Before I became... 'inconvenient.'"
She laid out documents in front of me — parts of reports, internal printouts with data, mentioning strange IDs, hidden from general access.
"These are traces of the parameter," she whispered. "It runs deeper than you think. And it's not just tied to academics… but to expulsions too."
I clenched the sheet of paper.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because you're not afraid to look deeper. And I can't do this alone."
When I stepped outside, the sky was overcast.
The world looked the same. People passed by. Some were laughing.
But I felt something inside me shift.
The parameter isn't just a system.
It's a mirror. It shows who you really are when no one's watching.
And someone is watching. Very closely.