The rain didn't come that day.
But the air still carried its weight.
Heavy.
Unsettling.
As if the storm from the night before had seeped into the walls of the school itself—lingering in silence, waiting to erupt again.
-
Michael Pradana had not slept.
Not properly.
Not peacefully.
The moment he closed his eyes, the same words echoed back at him—
Do you remember the rooftop?
Over and over again.
Like a whisper crawling through his mind.
Like something that refused to be forgotten.
-
Morning came too fast.
Too loud.
Too normal.
And that was the worst part.
Because nothing in his world felt normal anymore.
-
Michael stood in front of the mirror in his room, adjusting his tie.
Perfect.
As always.
His uniform was immaculate. His hair styled neatly. His expression calm.
Controlled.
But his eyes—
There was something off.
A faint tension beneath the surface.
A flicker of something unstable.
He leaned closer.
Studied his own reflection.
"…It's nothing," he muttered.
It had to be.
It was nothing.
Just a prank.
Someone messing with him.
Right?
-
But then—
Why that sentence?
Why that place?
-
Michael clenched his jaw slightly.
No.
He wasn't going to think about it.
Not here.
Not now.
He grabbed his bag and left.
-
At school—
Everything felt the same.
Students laughed.
Teachers talked.
Classes continued.
But for Michael—
Something had shifted.
Every sound felt sharper.
Every movement felt suspicious.
Every glance—
Intentional.
-
"Yo, Mike!"
A hand slapped his shoulder from behind.
Michael flinched.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"…Relax, man," Raka laughed. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Michael forced a smile.
"Didn't sleep well."
"Again?" Raka raised an eyebrow. "You've been off since yesterday."
"I said I'm fine."
Too quick.
Too sharp.
Raka tilted his head slightly.
"…Alright."
But he didn't look convinced.
-
From across the hallway—
Arthur watched.
Silent.
Unnoticed.
His eyes followed every micro-expression.
Every twitch.
Every delay in response.
And he saw it.
Clear as day.
The crack was widening.
-
Arthur leaned lightly against the wall, flipping a pen between his fingers.
Beside him, Mira stood quietly.
"He's deteriorating faster than expected," she said.
Arthur shook his head.
"No."
His gaze didn't leave Michael.
"He's stabilizing."
Mira frowned slightly.
"That doesn't look like stability."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"That's because you're looking at the surface."
He paused.
Then added:
"Real instability hides itself."
-
Michael walked past them.
Didn't notice.
Didn't even look.
But Arthur noticed something else.
Michael's grip on his bag—
Too tight.
His shoulders—
Slightly stiff.
His breathing—
Just a bit off.
Small details.
Invisible to most.
But not to Arthur.
Never to Arthur.
-
"Phase two," Arthur murmured.
-
Lunch break.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise.
Plates clattered. Conversations overlapped. Laughter filled the space.
Michael sat with his group as usual.
Same table.
Same people.
Same dynamic.
But—
Not the same Michael.
He laughed.
But a second too late.
He responded.
But not fully.
He listened.
But not carefully.
His attention kept drifting.
Back.
To that sentence.
To that place.
-
"Mike."
He blinked.
"…Yeah?"
"You're zoning out again," one of his friends said.
"Just tired."
"Man, you've been saying that all day."
Michael forced a chuckle.
"I said I'm fine."
But his voice lacked weight.
Even he could hear it.
-
Across the room—
Arthur sat alone.
Watching.
Waiting.
Calculating.
His tray of food remained untouched.
Because this—
This was far more satisfying.
-
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out his phone.
Unlocked it.
A message screen.
No name.
No number saved.
Just a blank contact.
Arthur typed slowly.
Carefully.
Then—
Sent.
-
Michael's phone vibrated.
Once.
Short.
Sharp.
His body reacted instantly.
Too instantly.
He grabbed his phone and checked the screen.
Unknown number.
One message.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then opened it.
-
"You didn't fall that day."
-
Michael froze.
The noise of the cafeteria disappeared.
His surroundings blurred.
His heartbeat—
Loud.
Violent.
Impossible to ignore.
-
That day.
-
"No…"
He whispered under his breath.
Barely audible.
-
Flash—
Rain.
Wind.
The edge of a rooftop.
A hand.
A push—
-
Michael stood up abruptly.
His chair screeched loudly against the floor.
Everyone looked.
"Mike?" Raka frowned. "What's wrong?"
"I—"
Michael stopped.
His throat felt tight.
Dry.
"…I need air."
And just like that—
He walked away.
Fast.
Unstable.
-
Arthur watched him leave.
Without expression.
Without emotion.
Just observation.
-
"Memory trigger," Mira said quietly.
Arthur nodded.
"Partial."
Mira crossed her arms.
"You're not just pressuring him."
Arthur tilted his head slightly.
"No."
His eyes darkened.
"I'm reconstructing him."
-
Outside—
Michael leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
His hands trembled slightly.
"That… wasn't real," he muttered.
"It's just… coincidence."
It had to be.
There was no way—
No one knew.
No one should know.
-
His phone vibrated again.
He froze.
Slowly—
He looked down.
Another message.
-
"But someone else did."
-
Michael's vision blurred.
His chest tightened.
His thoughts—
Spiraling.
-
"Who the hell are you?!" he typed back.
His fingers moved fast.
Desperate.
-
The reply came instantly.
-
"You'll remember soon."
-
Michael's grip tightened.
His knuckles turned white.
"This isn't funny…"
But his voice shook.
-
From the second floor—
Arthur watched everything unfold.
Perfectly.
-
"Now he's unstable," Mira said.
Arthur nodded.
"Yes."
"And unstable people…"
He closed his phone.
"…make mistakes."
-
Back inside the cafeteria—
The atmosphere slowly returned to normal.
But whispers had already begun.
"Did you see Michael?"
"He looked freaked out…"
"What happened to him?"
-
Rumors.
Soft.
Subtle.
Spreading.
-
Arthur walked through the hallway.
Calm.
Composed.
Invisible.
But every step he took—
Was deliberate.
-
He stopped near a bulletin board.
Glanced at the reflection in the glass.
Behind him—
Students passed by.
Talking.
Laughing.
Unaware.
-
Arthur's reflection stared back at him.
Cold.
Empty.
Focused.
-
"This is just the beginning," he murmured.
-
Because breaking someone…
Wasn't about strength.
It wasn't about violence.
It wasn't even about revenge.
-
It was about control.
-
And right now—
Michael Pradana was slowly losing his.
-
Arthur turned away from the glass.
Walking forward.
Without hesitation.
-
Behind him—
The cracks continued to spread.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
-
And soon—
They wouldn't be cracks anymore.
-
They would be fractures.