The lever goes down with less resistance than I expect.
CLACK.
For half a breath, nothing happens.
Then the world explodes in red and noise.
WEEOOO— WEEOOO— WEEOOO—
The siren slams into my ears, bouncing off the hallway walls. Red lights above the doors start flashing, painting everything in stuttering color.
Classroom doors fly open up and down the corridor.
"What the—?"
"Is this a drill?"
"Already? We just had one last month—"
A teacher sticks his head out of 2‑A, frowning. "Everyone, line up and exit in an orderly fashion! Don't run!"
I step back from the alarm box, my hand still tingling.
This is really happening.
"Ishikawa!"
I flinch.
Mr. Takeda barrels out of 2‑B, tie slightly askew, face set in that "I haven't had enough coffee for this" expression.
"Did you pull that?" he demands, pointing at the alarm.
A dozen pairs of eyes land on me at once.
My throat dries.
If I say "The school is going to blow up at 3:17," something cold will reach into my chest and squeeze. I've learned that the hard way.
"Y‑yes," I say instead. Lying is harder than it should be. "There's… I smelled gas again. Near the science storage. Stronger than before. I got scared."
It's not even fully false.
His brows slam together. "Again? You should have told me, not—"
"The last time I did, you said not to panic people," I shoot back, words tumbling out faster than my sense of self‑preservation. "If it is a leak and something sparks while we're still inside—"
The shadow in my ribs stirs as if warning: careful.
I bite off the word die just in time.
Takeda's jaw tightens.
He looks from me to the flashing light, to the stream of students bubbling out of nearby classrooms.
"Everyone out!" he snaps, turning back toward 2‑B. "Line up in front of the school and stay there until I say otherwise! No one goes back inside until the all clear!"
A wave of relieved murmurs rolls through the hall.
"Seriously? A real alarm?"
"Nice, we're getting out of class!"
"Whoever pulled it, I owe you a drink—"
"Quiet!" another teacher barks. "Move!"
The corridor fills with the controlled chaos of an evacuation drill: shoes squeaking, bags rustling, kids jostling. A few laugh and joke. A few look genuinely nervous.
This is the part where panic killed us last time.
"Use both stairwells!" Mr. Takeda shouts over the din. "Do not crowd the center stairs! 2‑A and 2‑B, take the east staircase. 2‑C and 2‑D, west staircase. No running!"
I could almost hug him.
He strides off, barking assignments. Other teachers echo him, herding their flocks into lines.
The tide of students catches me and pulls me along. For once, I let it.
Yuta appears at my elbow, eyes bright.
"Dude," he hisses. "Did you do this? Tell me you did. This is peak main‑character behavior."
"Shut up and walk," I say, even as relief washes through me that he's here, alive, joking.
He chuckles, falling into step.
We reach the east staircase. It's crowded but not a stampede this time—two parallel lines, kids shuffling down with more annoyance than fear. Teachers line the railings, shouting, "Keep moving!" and "Don't push!"
The memory of my last fall—bodies, broken steps, the awful moment of weightlessness—makes my legs go cold.
I grip the handrail until my knuckles ache.
One step. Two. Three.
It holds.
We file out onto the first floor, then through the double doors into the courtyard.
Fresh air hits me like water.
The siren is still blaring, echoing off the buildings. Red lights over the exits flash. Somewhere inside, the automatic system is probably pinging the fire department and the office at once.
Students spread out across the yard, clumping into loose class groups. Teachers start doing headcounts, waving kids closer.
I look up at the classroom windows.
Third floor. No smoke yet. Just faces pressed to the glass in the neighboring wings, trying to see what's happening.
The sun is too bright for the world I remember burning in.
"Assembly lines!" Mr. Takeda calls. "Homeroom rows, just like drills! Come on, you know how to do this!"
"Hey, this is kind of exciting," Yuta says, rocking on his heels. "Maybe we'll get the rest of the day off."
"Yeah," I say. "Exciting."
My eyes flick to the big clock mounted above the entrance.
2:48 p.m.
We're early.
Last time, I was still at my desk when the heat hit us.
Now there's half an hour between us and 3:17.
If the universe is going to throw a fit, it has to do it while everyone's already outside.
The thought doesn't relax me. It just changes the shape of the dread.
A vice that was squeezing in a corridor is now hovering over an open yard.
"Everyone, quiet!" a teacher shouts. "This is not a game!"
The siren keeps wailing.
Someone mutters, "It's probably a false alarm." Another snorts, "Then I'm kissing whoever pulled it."
I keep my mouth shut.
Miyu stands a few rows ahead in the 2‑B block, shoulders a little hunched, eyes flicking between the building and the ground. She looks even smaller out here, her neat uniform swallowed by the crowd.
Part of me wants to stand next to her, tell her it'll be okay. Another part knows I can't promise that.
Not yet.
Takeda finishes counting and moves off to confer with other teachers near the entrance.
One of them is gesturing upset, pointing up toward the third floor. Another is on their phone, presumably talking to the office or the fire department.
"Hey," Yuta says under his breath. "What if someone really did burn something? Think they'll cancel classes?"
"Maybe," I say.
A paramedic siren wails in the distance.
Everyone follows the sound with their eyes until an ambulance pulls into view, followed by a fire engine. They roll through the gate, stopping near the main doors.
This is new.
The first time, the fire trucks came too late, after the explosion.
This time, they're early. Because of me.
The thought sends a weird, fierce little spark through my chest.
I did this.
A firefighter hops down from the truck, talking fast with a teacher. Two more head toward the building with equipment.
I glance at the clock again.
2:55.
The siren on the wall finally cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
The firemen vanish inside.
Nothing happens.
The students begin to fidget.
"How long is this going to take?"
"My bag is still in the classroom."
"I left my phone—"
"I'm hungry…"
The ordinary whine of teenagers fills the yard.
For a few minutes, I can almost pretend this is just what it looks like: a precaution, an inconvenience, something we'll laugh about later.
Then the back of my neck prickles.
The air feels… thicker.
A faint vibration tickles the soles of my feet, like distant construction.
I look around sharply.
No one else reacts. A couple of kids are playing rock‑paper‑scissors. Someone's scrolling on a hidden phone. A girl is braiding her friend's hair.
I press a hand to my chest.
My heartbeat is normal-fast. Nervous, but not panicked.
Under it, like a bass note, I feel something else.
Ba-dump.
Slow. Heavy. Familiar.
My mouth goes dry.
"Yuta," I say. "Do you… feel that?"
He glances at me. "Feel what? Heatstroke? We're all dying of that."
"Never mind."
I swallow.
On the far side of the yard, by the gate, the alley cat from this morning weaves through the grass, tail low. It pauses, looks up at the building, and its fur stands on end.
Animals always know first. That's what people say.
The second hand on the big clock ticks.
3:02. 3:03. 3:04.
The firemen reappear at the entrance. One shouts something to the teacher in charge. They disappear back inside, this time heading toward the science wing with more urgency.
"You see?" someone near me says. "There was something."
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
"Everyone stay where you are," Takeda calls. "Do not approach the building."
My hands are shaking.
We're out. The building's being checked by professionals. If they find the leak and shut it down, maybe—
Ba-dump.
The not‑mine heartbeat slams once, hard enough that I feel it in my teeth.
I flinch.
The sky is too blue for what's coming.
I can feel Tuesday coiling around us like a spring.
I shut my eyes for a second.
If there's a next time…
No.
No. No more just hoping for a "next time."
If this one goes bad, I want it to go bad with as many people alive as possible.
I open my eyes and scan the yard.
Most of 2‑B is clustered near the middle. Miyu stands toward the back, close to the building, like she was trying to be last out of the way.
Of course she did.
"Miyu!" I call.
She startles and looks over.
"Come here," I say, gesturing her closer.
She hesitates, then weaves through the people to stand next to me.
"Is something wrong?" she asks, glancing up at the school.
"Yes," I say before I can soften it. "Maybe. I don't know. Just—stay close to the middle, okay? Away from the walls."
Her brows knit, but she nods slowly.
"…All right."
Yuta arches an eyebrow. "What, is the building going to fall over on us now?"
"Don't joke," I snap, harsher than I mean to. "Just… humor me."
He holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Geez."
The seconds drip.
3:10.
The teachers look more strained. Voices over walkie‑talkies get sharper. One fireman comes out with a mask, shouts something, and dashes back in.
I don't need to hear the words to guess.
They smelled it.
They're too late.
The cat has vanished. Smart.
The wind dies.
For one surreal, breathless moment, the entire yard seems to hold still. Even the leaves on the trees stop moving.
Then there's a flash.
Not fire.
Light.
From one of the third‑floor science lab windows, a brilliant white spark arcs outward, like someone snapped a giant flash camera. It's beautiful in the most awful way.
It hits the open air, ignites the invisible cloud hanging near that side of the building.
The world goes white‑orange.
The blast hits a heartbeat later.
WHUMP.
It's not the same as last time.
In the classroom, it was all compressed inside, all heat and pressure and ceiling.
Out here, it's a rolling wall of air and sound that slams into us like a giant's hand.
I'm thrown backward off my feet. The sky spins. Something heavy clips my shoulder. For half a second, I'm weightless.
Then the ground punches me in the back.
My ears ring. My vision fuzzes.
People are screaming.
I taste dust and metal.
Somewhere deep in the building, secondary blasts pop—smaller, angrier barks as more pockets of gas or chemicals go off.
Glass rains down in glittering arcs, slicing the air. Shards pepper the grass and concrete with tiny lethal sighs.
I roll on instinct, curling around my head.
A chunk of something—brick? Window frame?—slams into the spot where I just was.
"Miyu!" I choke, scanning blindly.
My eyes find her a few meters away, knocked to her knees, arms up over her head.
I lurch toward her.
The air is a chaos of dust and smoke. Where the science wing was, there's now a jagged wound in the building—walls blackened, windows blown out, one entire lab front peeled away like a dollhouse.
Fire licks greedily at curtains, paper, anything that will burn.
The heat hits a moment later, a wave that makes my skin prickle.
"…Ishikawa‑kun!" Miyu's voice, thin and shocked.
I reach her, grab her arm.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She stares at me, eyes huge. There's a cut on her cheek, blood oozing in a thin line, but she nods jerkily.
"I—I'm okay. I think." Her gaze jerks back to the building. "The others—"
Behind us, on the far side of the yard, a group of students wails. Someone shouts for a teacher. A body lies too still near the edge of the courtyard—hit by falling debris, maybe. Teachers sprint, abandoning order for triage.
I drag Miyu toward the center of the grass.
"Stay away from the walls," I rasp. "Stuff's still falling."
She doesn't resist.
Sirens wail from everywhere now. The fire engine we already had is suddenly not enough; more are on the way. Smoke piles into the sky in an ugly column.
"Behind the fence!" a teacher screams. "Move away from the building! Everyone back, now!"
We stumble with the crowd as they surge toward the far end of the yard, away from the ruined wing. Some are crying, some are in shock, some are laughing hysterically.
"You okay, man?" Yuta appears at my side, panting. There's a cut above his eyebrow, blood trickling down, but he's grinning the way people do when they're one second from breaking. "That was—what the hell was that—"
I want to say, Progress.
It's sick, but it is.
Most of us are outside. The main blast didn't gut full classrooms this time. The damage is focused on the lab and the immediate surroundings. Bad, but not the total massacre I remember from the first loop.
"This time was better," I hear myself say, dazed. "A little better."
Yuta stares. "Better?!"
"I mean—"
Before I can finish, the ground lurches under my feet.
Just a tiny shift, like someone kicked one of the building's supports.
The broken third‑floor wall groans.
I look up.
A section of the remaining concrete edge, cracked and half‑hanging, decides it's had enough. It tears free in slow awful motion, tumbling outward, breaking into chunks as it comes.
Directly above us.
People scream again, scattering.
"Move!" someone yells. "Run!"
My brain does the math in a split second.
We're too close.
I shove Miyu as hard as I can.
"Go!"
She stumbles away, falling to the grass. Yuta grabs her, dragging her further.
I twist to sprint in the opposite direction.
The first chunk hits the ground ahead of me, throwing up dirt and fragments. The shockwave knocks me sideways.
Another piece—smaller, jagged—spins through the air toward me.
I don't have time to duck.
Impact.
For a split second, there's only pressure.
Then pain.
Not like the crush in the stairwell. Sharper. Focused. Something slams into my side, punching through soft things that really shouldn't be punched through.
The breath leaves my lungs in a pathetic squeak.
I hit the ground.
The sky tilts and jitters.
Noise becomes a muffled blur—screams, orders, crackling fire, sirens. The world keeps moving without me.
I try to roll, to curl up, but my body doesn't listen.
Warmth spreads under me.
That's… not great.
Somewhere above, I hear Yuta shout my name. Or maybe I imagine it.
A face leans over me—someone in uniform, maybe a teacher, maybe a firefighter. Their mouth moves. I can't hear the words.
My vision pulses.
Ba-dump.
It's not my heart.
Mine is fluttering like a trapped bird, fast and weak.
The other heartbeat is slow. Steady. Far too calm for a scene like this.
A shadow looms in the corners of my sight. Not from the smoke. From somewhere closer, under the skin of the world.
"No," I rasp, or think I do. "Not… now…"
It ignores me.
Cold fingers slip into my head again, sifting.
This time I feel them hesitate, like they're choosing.
Memories flicker past in an instant: Mom's silhouette in the kitchen doorway. Yuta's arm around my neck. Miyu's bowed head over her neatly arranged lunch. The old park with the too‑hot slide. My first scraped knee. Holding a cheap fireworks sparkler in the summer dusk.
The hand closes around something.
I don't even know which one until it starts to go.
A summer night. The smell of fireworks and grilled meat. Mom's face lit by little bursts of color as she looked up, eyes wide, younger somehow.
I reach for it.
My fingers pass through light that's already fading.
It hurts worse than the hole in my side.
"Give it back," I try to say, but my tongue is thick and uncooperative.
The hand withdraws, prize taken.
The not‑mine heartbeat thuds once, satisfied.
Ba-dump.
The world goes gray at the edges.
Faces blur, then smear into streaks. Sirens stretch into a single high tone.
If there's a next time…
The phrase is shredded now. Tired. Frayed. I don't even know what comes after it anymore.
I close my eyes.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm claws me out of the dark.
I don't gasp this time. I just lie there, drenched in sweat, listening to that stupid electronic chirp and the faint echo of a slower, heavier beat under it.
I turn my head.
The red digits on the clock glow like they're mocking me.
7:00 a.m.
TUE 17
From the kitchen:
"Satoru! You're going to be late again! Get up already!"
My mouth moves before I think.
"I'm up," I croak. "Again."
I sit up slowly, every motion deliberate, as if my bones might remember breaking and decide to do it out of habit.
The notebook is still on my desk.
I pick it up with careful hands and flip to the rules page.
For a moment, the lines blur.
Then I uncap the pen.
Under 8, I write:
Pulling the alarm gets most people outside before the blast.
(Fewer die.)
My hand trembles.
Below it, I add another line.
The disaster adjusts to hit something near me no matter what.
I stare at the words until my eyes sting.
My memory pokes at another hole. Something missing. Summer. Fireworks. Mom's eyes.
It's gone.
I press the pen harder.
"At this rate," I whisper, "by the time I figure out how to really fix this…I won't remember why I started."
The save point doesn't care.
The clock ticks.
Tuesday waits for me to hit Continue.