If you only glanced at Naraya Dharma International School, you'd think it was perfect.
Built like a palace, funded like a kingdom, and maintained like a museum, NDIS had the kind of architecture that whispered wealth. Polished marble hallways. Glass skylights that refracted sun like crystal. Statues imported from Italy. Garden hedges trimmed into mythological creatures.
From above, the school formed a mandala—a sacred pattern only the board of directors (and probably a few secret cults) understood.
There were seven buildings, all aligned to face the central fountain, which they called The Eye of Enlightenment.Students called it "The Circle Where Phones Die."Same thing, really.
It had everything.
Smart classrooms. AI-powered lockers. Meditation pods. Crying booths disguised as "Reflection Chambers". Even the birds seemed better trained.
But the thing about Naraya Dharma?
It was too perfect.
Too symmetrical. Too pristine.Like it was built not just for education—but for containment.
We're walking past the west corridor now, the one with the tall bay windows and floor that clicks too sharply beneath your shoes.
Class just ended, and the hallway should be loud.
But today?
It's thin.
Not quiet. Just… stretched. Like sound is trying to reach us through water.
Raka's chewing on a protein bar that's probably expired. His messy hair is sticking out from under his hood, uniform half-zipped, shoes unmatched as always. Golden-retriever energy. Built to panic under pressure.
"I hate this place," he mumbles through his snack. "Feels like it's breathing."
Beside him, Nayla walks with purpose—no-nonsense steps, tie knotted perfectly, blazer spotless. Her jet-black hair is tied into a loose braid, her expression set somewhere between murder and midterm anxiety. She carries her tablet like a weapon, her pen like a scalpel.
"Buildings don't breathe," she says flatly.
"Then explain why the doors click behind me like they're judging my GPA."
"Because you don't have one."
"Exactly."
I trail behind them, my eyes scanning the corridor for something… wrong.
And that's when it happens.
We pass the art wing. There's a classroom door propped open, just slightly. Enough for a sliver of shadow to spill out.
And then—we hear it.
"Where's Devano?"
A student's voice. Quiet. Confused.
We stop.
I glance through the crack in the door.
Inside: a few students standing in a semi-circle. One of them is pointing at an empty chair.
"Wasn't he just here?"
"Who?"
"Devano."
The others blink.
One shakes his head.
"Don't think we have anyone with that name."
"But—he just asked me for an eraser."
The empty seat looks freshly used. A pencil lies broken on the floor beside it.There's even a half-finished sketch on the desk.
But no one remembers him.
"That's number eight," Nayla says quietly.
"Indeed."
Avici's voice drops into all our heads again.
Raka gasps. "Dude, warn me before you drop ghost bombs in my brain."
"The eighth memory has collapsed. The sigil's reach is growing."
Nayla doesn't look at us. She's staring into the classroom.
"He vanished in broad daylight."
"In front of witnesses."
"And reality rewrote itself faster than anyone could scream."
Raka steps closer to the door. Peeks in again.
"That sketch," he says. "Why hasn't it vanished too?"
I step beside him.
The drawing on the desk: a strange spiral. Not a person. Not a face. Just looping, interlocked lines…
And right in the center?
The same eye.
"It's starting to appear on its own," I whisper. "Even in the hands of people who don't know."
"Because the memory rot is no longer contained," Avici murmurs. "It's becoming instinct."
We back away from the door. The students inside? Already forgot the conversation.
Just like that.
Back in the corridor, Raka lets out a breath.
"So… anyone else feel like we're being watched by the building itself?"
Nayla doesn't answer. She's too busy typing notes into her log.
"This place," she mutters, "wasn't built to educate."
"You think it's a prison?" I ask.
She glances up.
"No. Worse. It's a ritual site."