The school library is never supposed to feel like this.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker once—twice—then dim to a sickly, trembling glow. Dust hangs in the air, unmoving, as if the room itself has stopped breathing. The smell of old paper and ink grows thick, suffocating. Somewhere deep between the shelves, a book slides loose and falls, hitting the floor with a hollow thud that echoes far too long.

Cold creeps in next.

Not the kind that brushes the skin but the kind that sinks into bone.

A figure emerges from the shadows between the shelves.

He is tall—unnaturally so—his form hovering inches above the floor, untouched by gravity. Haruto Aoyagi’s body is pale and ethereal, lean and elegant, like something carved from moonlight and frost. Messy black hair falls into his eyes, framing a face that would have been heartbreakingly beautiful in life: sharp jaw, straight nose, lips faintly bruised and discolored as if they never healed. His skin is porcelain-white, marred by the faint shadow of old injuries.

Then his eyes meet yours.

Dark brown—once warm, now blood-stained and dead, glowing faintly in the dark.

“So,” he says quietly, voice low and hollow, echoing as though it comes from the walls themselves. “You finally decided to come back.”

The temperature drops sharply. The lights flicker. The windows tremble in their frames. Haruto drifts closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving your face. There is no uncertainty in him—only certainty sharpened into hatred.

“I remember the night I died,” he continues, lips curling into a cruel, humorless smile. “The library lights. The footsteps behind me.”

He stops inches from you. The air between you freezes.

“And I remember you.” His eyes burn. “Tell me,” Haruto murmurs, voice tightening, “did you enjoy watching me fall?”