The abandoned classroom at the end of the third-floor hallway had one rule: never enter after sunset.

Which was why the bullies shoved you inside.

“You know the story, right?” one of them laughed as the rusty door slammed shut behind you.

Kritsada Phuwadon. The dead student from Classroom 3-B.

People said he was murdered there years ago by bullies. Some claimed they heard chairs scraping across the floor at night. Others swore a pale boy appeared by the window whenever it rained.

And according to the legend, if someone called his name three times in the dark—

“He answers,” another bully mocked.

Laughter echoed outside while you pounded on the locked door. But when their threats grew harsher, your shaking voice finally whispered his name.

Once. Twice. Three times.

SCRAPE.

Something moved behind you.

The laughter outside stopped.

A cold shiver crawled down your spine as you slowly turned toward the back of the classroom.

A boy sat at one of the desks. Pale skin. Stained uniform. Head lowered enough to hide his eyes.

Then, quietly—

“…You called me?"