"Name?"
"A...qua..."
"Age?"
"Th... thirteen..."
A young girl?
In ancient times, a thirteen-year-old girl was considered in her prime.
But this is modern times. Twelve or thirteen aligns perfectly with fifth grade in elementary school, so it's not unusual for her to be on a school campus.
Amamiya asked again:
"I knocked on the door earlier. Why didn't you say anything?"
"S-Sorry," the trembling voice of the little ghost responded.
The ghostly girl—small, frail, and clearly unnerved—shivered violently.
"Tsk, what are you so scared of?" Amamiya said in a comforting tone. "I'm not a bad guy."
"…"
Hearing this, the ghost girl trembled even more violently.
Amamiya frowned. Something felt off.
Her skin was pale as paper.
Her eyes were unnaturally dark.
Her face was streaked with dried tears.
Water dripped steadily from her hair and clothes.
No matter how you looked at her, she was undeniably a vengeful spirit.
When Amamiya had glanced down from the adjacent stall earlier, he had prepared himself to use his skills. But, to his surprise, this crying ghost was as timid as a mouse facing a cat. She didn't resist; instead, she cowered, trembling in fear.
"Did you see her?" Amamiya asked, attempting to describe the image of the maid spy he was searching for.
"S-Sorry..."
The ghost girl stammered, her voice shaky. She covered her mouth, trembling uncontrollably as water continued to seep from her body. Her drenched appearance added to the eerie atmosphere.
Seeing her state, Amamiya had the bizarre urge to ask her to take off her wet clothes to inspect where the water was coming from. 'With such a talent, you'd be a saint in the deserts of the Middle East,' he thought wryly.
However, just as he opened his mouth to speak, a chilling sensation brushed against his consciousness. It was as if an unseen gaze from another dimension was glaring at him. He swallowed his words immediately.
'Better not.'
After all, anyone who dared to ask an elementary school-aged ghost to remove her clothes would surely be struck down by divine retribution—or worse, the King of Hell himself.
After a few more questions, Amamiya's expression darkened.
Something was definitely wrong with this ghost.
Take Hanako, for instance. Despite being a ghost story character, she had intelligence. She could bargain, play tricks, and even throw tantrums.
But this weeping ghost in front of him seemed almost... vacant. She could only answer basic questions like her name and age. Anything more complex—such as why she was hiding in the bathroom or crying alone—was met with silence or confusion. It was as if she was operating purely on instinct.
When pressed further, she would just stammer an apology and tremble even more, as if she were being bullied.
'You've completely tarnished the reputation of vengeful spirits everywhere.'
Realizing he wouldn't get any useful information, Amamiya sighed, closed the cubicle door, and turned to leave the bathroom.
---
Out in the corridor, Amamiya glanced at the horizon.
The setting sun glowed an ominous red, bathing the surroundings in the deep hues of dusk. Not a single bird—tired or otherwise—was in sight. Even crows were absent.
Time itself seemed frozen in this sinister hour.
Exhaling softly, Amamiya randomly chose a direction and began walking, determined to verify his suspicions.
After a short while, the sound of tables and chairs clattering reached his ears from a nearby classroom.
Without hesitation, Amamiya headed straight for the source.
---
In the dimly lit classroom, a boy in a school uniform sat silently in the far corner by the window, his head lowered as he wiped something on the desk with his hands.
"Buddy, staying out so late will make your parents worry," Amamiya said casually as he pushed open the classroom door and stepped inside.
"…"
The noise stopped abruptly.
The boy froze, as if someone had pressed his "off" switch. He remained motionless, head bowed, standing stiffly by the desk like a lifeless doll.
Curious, Amamiya approached the desk. Someone had scrawled words across its surface in pen—offensive phrases like 'しね (Die)' and 'くそ(Trash).'
Bloodstains streaked the desk, fresh and vivid. They hadn't even begun to dry.
Amamiya's gaze shifted to the boy's hands. His palms were raw and bloodied, clearly from wiping the desk barehanded without using any tools.
"Tsk, doesn't wiping the table like that hurt your hands?"
Amamiya felt a strange pang in his teeth, an inexplicable discomfort at the sight before him.
"…"
The ghostly boy didn't respond.
"What's your name?"
"…"
Still, there was no reply. The vengeful spirit merely stood there with his head down, timid and silent, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand. He gave no sign of hearing Amamiya's words.
Amamiya waved a hand in front of the boy's face, but the spirit flinched slightly and shrank back, avoiding the gesture without uttering a single word.
"You don't say a word. You're making this really hard for me, you know."
After trying several tactics and getting nothing in return, Amamiya finally gave up with a resigned sigh, turning to leave.
But after only a few steps, something felt off—a searing pain suddenly flared in his right palm.
"Hm?"
He stopped, raising his hand in front of him to inspect it.
The palm wasn't injured; there wasn't a single mark. Yet the burning sensation intensified, spreading with each passing second as if conjured from thin air.
Amamiya turned to glance back at the ghost boy, who still stood with his head lowered. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Moments later, a system prompt appeared before him:
[After careful observation, you realize that you and the silent ghost boy share a strange connection, suffering in sync. You decide to give him something to occupy his mind...]
"Is it because the table looks clean enough now?"
With a raised eyebrow, Amamiya approached the desk, took a pen from his gaming backpack, and casually scrawled a few offensive words across the surface.
The boy, previously as still as a statue, finally moved. His body trembled faintly as he stiffly raised his bloody hand and began wiping the table again, mechanically scrubbing over the fresh markings.
The burning pain in Amamiya's hand dissipated almost immediately. He frowned, contemplating the situation for a moment before turning to leave the classroom.
This time, nothing unusual happened.
Back in the corridor, Amamiya glanced at his right hand thoughtfully, his expression contemplative.
No doubt about it.
This alternate dimension harbored vengeful spirits—plenty of them, in fact. But these ghosts seemed to lack any real consciousness, operating purely on instinct.
'If that's the case…'
Taking a deep breath, Amamiya cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the eerie quiet of the school building:
"Hanamori-san! Come out already—it's time to go home for dinner!"
"…"
---
At the same time, in a dimly lit office...
Hayasaka was hiding in a cramped closet. Her glasses were long gone—lost in the chaos—and her pale, delicate face was streaked with cold sweat. She bit her lower lip, trembling uncontrollably.
'How many hours has it been?'
She didn't know.
The blood-red twilight outside hadn't shifted an inch since she arrived, and the hands of the clock seemed frozen in time.
Hayasaka's luck couldn't have been worse. She'd landed directly inside the school when she entered the dungeon. Before she could even get her bearings, she'd encountered the ghost story legend Hanako—and the spirit had wasted no time in chasing her.
During her frantic escape, something strange had happened. One moment it was night, and the next, the world had shifted to an endless, crimson dusk.
And then, despair descended.