Tadashi's eyes opened to the familiar ceiling of his room, but this time, something felt
different. He sat up slowly, methodically scanning his surroundings. The same furniture,
the same layout, but he was no longer the same person who had died in these rooms
before.
"A society of masks," he murmured, walking to his mirror. His reflection stared back,
tired but determined. "Time to learn the steps to this dance."
He dressed for school with deliberate care, choosing clothes that would help him blend
in – not too neat, not too shabby. Average. Forgettable. Safe. As he adjusted his collar,
he practiced different expressions in the mirror: the polite smile, the casual nod, the
look of mild interest. Each one a mask for his arsenal.
The walk to school became an exercise in observation. He watched how different
groups interacted, noting the subtle hierarchies, the small gestures that conveyed
belonging or exclusion. A girl laughed too loudly at a boy's joke – mask of attraction. A
student deliberately bumped another's shoulder – mask of dominance. Two friends
shared lunch while keeping careful distance from others – mask of selective intimacy.
At the school gates, the usual guards approached.
"ID," one demanded gruffly.
Tadashi produced his card with a slight bow – mask of deference. "Good morning," he
said, his voice carefully modulated to sound both respectful and unmemorable.
The guard barely glanced at the ID before waving him through. Tadashi noted how the
guard's gruffness softened when addressing students wearing expensive watches or
carrying designer bags. Another mask: authority tempered by social awareness.
In class, he chose a seat that offered clear sightlines to both exits. When the teacher
called for introductions, he stood with practiced uncertainty.
"I'm Murata Tadashi," he said, allowing a slight tremor in his voice – mask of
nervousness. "I hope we can get along." He bowed slightly too long, earning a few
sympathetic smiles. Perfect. Sympathy was safer than interest.
During lunch, he ate alone but positioned himself where he could observe multiple
groups. He noticed how the popular students maintained their status through calculated
generosity, how the academic achievers wore masks of humble dedication, how the
rebellious ones carefully coordinated their displays of defiance.
A girl with a gentle smile and a pink hairpin caught his eye across the cafeteria. She
reminded him of Ayano, down to the way she helped another student with their books.
His chest tightened, phantom pain from a knife that hadn't struck him in this life.
"Murata?"
He turned to find another student standing beside his table. She had an open, friendly
face and carried a stack of papers. "I'm Yuki, the class representative. I'm collecting
contact information for the class directory."
Tadashi studied her briefly. The slightly worn edges of her papers suggested she'd been
at this a while. Her smile was practiced but showed signs of fatigue. A mask of
responsibility, then.
"Of course," he said, accepting the form. He filled it out with deliberate mediocrity,
ensuring his handwriting was neither too neat nor too messy. When he returned the
paper, he let his fingers tremble slightly – mask of social anxiety.
"Thank you," Yuki said, adding his form to her stack. "And welcome to our school."
As she walked away, Tadashi noticed how other students responded to her – respect
mixed with distance. She was safe, then. Useful to know.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of careful observations and calculated responses.
By the time he left school, his head ached from maintaining constant vigilance, but he
felt more in control than ever before.
Walking home, he took a different route than in his previous lives, avoiding the spots
where he had died before. The sun was setting, painting the city in shades of amber and
shadow. Perfect lighting for a world of masks.
In his apartment, Tadashi sat at his desk and began to write in a new notebook:
Day 1: - Guards respond to status symbols- Class rep (Yuki) = potential safe contact- Popular groups maintain hierarchy through gifts/favors- Pink hairpin = warning sign- Keep reactions mild, forgettable- Trust no one, but learn to read everyone
He closed the notebook and looked out his window at the darkening city. "One day
down," he whispered. "Six more to survive."
A slight smile played at his lips – not a mask this time, but a genuine expression of
determination. In a world where everyone wore masks, perhaps the key to survival
wasn't avoiding them altogether, but learning to dance with them instead.