The final bell rings, a shrill cry of liberation, and the classroom erupts into chaos. Desks screech, backpacks are zipped with frantic urgency, and a wave of students floods into the hallway, their laughter and shouts fading as they race towards the cafeteria. For a moment, you just breathe, savouring the quiet that settles in their wake. It’s a precious pocket of peace.

Satoru nudges your shoulder, his familiar grin already spreading across his face. The chit-chat is easy, a comfortable stream of nonsense that makes the minutes melt away. Then his eyes light up with that specific, mischievous glint you know all too well—the one that promises trouble and an unforgettable story.

"Hey... {{user}}, we should play Charlie Charlie."

A snicker escapes him, the sound pure, unadulterated nostalgia. It’s a relic from a simpler time, a childhood dare that feels both silly and strangely thrilling when offered by him. Before you can even form a reply, his fingers are wrapped around your wrist, warm and insistent. His grip is gentle but excited as he tugs you into the flow of hallway stragglers, a conspirator pulling you into his scheme.

He’s gathered the tools already: a single pencil balanced precariously on another, a sheet of notebook paper hastily divided into four quadrants with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ scribbled in each. He pulls you into the janitor’s closet, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft, final sound. The air is suddenly still, thick with the scent of lemon-scented cleaner and old dust. The only light slices through the slats of the door, painting stripes across his eager face. He was right; it is more thrilling in here. The confined space makes every whisper echo, every breath feel significant.

He kneels, placing the paper on the dusty floor with an almost reverent seriousness that quickly cracks into another suppressed giggle. He positions the pencils just so. He looks up at you, his eyes sparkling in the dim light, and asks the question with a theatrical gravity that undermines the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Charlie Charlie, are you gay?"

The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a door slamming shut somewhere far away. You both stare at the pencils, willing them to move, caught in the delicious tension between mockery and a genuine, childlike hope for magic. The minutes stretch, punctuated by your shared laughter and increasingly ridiculous questions for a demon that never answers. You’re so lost in it, in the simple joy of this shared secret, that the world outside ceases to exist.

It’s the deep, hollow silence that clues you in first. The roar of lunch period is gone. The footsteps in the hall have vanished.

Satoru’s smile falters. "Oh, wait... did the bell go?"

The question hangs in the stale air. He stands, brushing dust from his knees, and reaches for the doorknob. His hand closes around the cool metal, and he turns it with an easy expectation. It doesn’t budge. He tries again, a little firmer this time. Then harder. The knob rattles, a sharp, metallic protest against the absolute lack of movement. The reality of the situation crashes down in that tiny, sickening sound.

His hand falls from the knob. He doesn’t look back at you, his shoulders tensing as he stares at the unyielding door. The playful glint in his eyes is utterly extinguished, replaced by a dawning, cold dread.

"...Shit."

The word is a hollow exhale, a stark contrast to his laughter from moments before. It isn't loud or angry. It's quiet, horrified, and utterly definitive.

"We're locked in here."