Kai sat in the library, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. In front of him were yearbooks spanning the last ten years—cracked spines, faded covers, brittle paper.
He wasn't looking for names anymore.
He was looking for patterns.
And he found one.
At first, it was subtle—a tall man with wire-frame glasses, always standing off to the side in group photos. Sometimes near the back of class 1-B, other times beside the faculty team at sports day, or behind the science club during their yearly trip.
The man was never labeled. No name. No title. Just there. Lurking in the margins.
Page after page.
Year after year.
Always the same face.
Kai turned to the 2019 yearbook. There he was again—next to the graduating class. Same expression. Same posture.
He checked the staff directory for that year.
No such teacher was listed.
He ran a search on the faculty ID system in the library database.
Nothing.
The man didn't exist.
But he was in every photo.
Kai tried asking a few students in the hallway.
"Hey, do you know this teacher?" he'd say, showing a printed scan from the yearbook.
They'd glance, squint, and shake their heads.
"Doesn't ring a bell.""Must be a janitor or something?""That's weird, I don't remember him either…"
He showed it to his homeroom teacher, Mr. Ishikawa.
The man frowned and studied it longer than the others.
Then: "That's... odd. But I'm sure it's just an intern or someone temporary."
"Why is he in all the yearbooks?" Kai asked.
"I don't know, Kai. Probably a photographer or a mistake. These things happen."
But the look in Ishikawa's eyes said something else: fear.Only for a moment—but it was there.
And then he dismissed Kai with a strained smile.
"Try to focus on your midterms, alright?"
Kai returned to the records office that evening, knowing it was risky. Cameras might be on. Someone might be watching. But he had to find out who the man was.
This time, he checked physical archives—files that hadn't been digitized yet.
In an unlabeled box under a stack of exam papers, he found a staff photo roster dated 2005.
The same man was there—third row, fourth from the left.
But next to his photo was a name, handwritten in red ink: "Mr. Seiji Hayama – Experimental Psychology Unit."
Kai's pulse quickened.
There had never been a psychology class in this school.
Next to the photo was a note:
"Room 2-5. Key code 4481. Archive access restricted. Report all irregularities."
Room 2-5 had been closed for years.
At least… officially.
Kai waited until after sunset. Most students had gone home.
He crept through the dimly lit hallway, the silence broken only by the buzzing of the overhead lights.
Room 2-5 sat at the far end of the second floor, taped off with a faded "UNDER MAINTENANCE" sign.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
Then he entered the code: 4481.
Click.
The door opened slowly, the hinges groaning like something exhaling after a long sleep.
The room was covered in plastic sheeting, as if frozen in time.
Desks were pushed aside. Cabinets lined the wall, filled with case files, photos, and something else—recordings.
Old video tapes, labeled by hand:
Subject A – Session 1Subject B – Indoctrination – Phase 2Spiral Framework – Failures Compilation
In the far corner of the room was a small desk. Dusty. Undisturbed.
On it sat a framed photograph.
It was Mr. Hayama.
But he wasn't alone.
He stood with several students—some Kai recognized.
One was Mira.
Another looked eerily like Kai himself—younger, gaunt, but unmistakably him.
His fingers trembled.
He flipped the photo over.
Written on the back in cursive:"Spiral Class Alpha – Final Year."
Kai picked up one of the tapes labeled simply: "Hayama – Directive Brief."
He found an old player and inserted the cassette.
The screen flickered.
There he was—Mr. Hayama—standing in front of a blackboard covered in diagrams: spirals, branching trees, mirrored faces.
He spoke calmly, formally, like a lecturer.
"The Spiral Project is not about control—it's about freedom from the illusion of choice. If a student forgets who they are, you can teach them anything. Make them believe anything. Even that they were someone else entirely."
"Phase Two requires absolute disconnection. The mind must be restructured, erased of personal memory. The subject must not know they're being taught."
"They must think it's their idea. Their desire. Their truth."
Kai's stomach churned.
Hayama leaned closer to the camera.
"And if they begin to remember… reset them. Or remove them."
The next day, Kai asked around about Mr. Ishikawa, his homeroom teacher.
No one knew who that was.
The name didn't appear on the faculty database.
The desk in his classroom was empty.
When Kai pressed the administration, he was told: "We've never had a teacher by that name."
He ran back to the classroom.
Gone.
No books. No personal items. No sign he'd ever been there.
A replacement teacher smiled warmly. "Are you alright, Ishida-kun? You look pale."
Kai stared at the chalkboard.
In shaky cursive was written:"Forget what you saw."
He left without saying a word.
That night, Kai stood before his mirror and stared at his own reflection.
His thoughts were spiraling.
Hayama. The photo. The video.The vanished teachers.The altered memories.
The way people forgot.
He touched the mirror.
And for just a second—
The face looking back was not his own.
It was older.
Wearing glasses.
Wearing a smile that never reached the eyes.
It was Mr. Hayama.
Kai stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
He looked again.
It was just him.
But the fear lingered like static in his brain.
He whispered to himself, over and over:"I am Kai Ishida. I am Kai Ishida"
But the words felt… foreign.
Like someone else had written them into his mind.