Survivor's Paradox

After surviving a lunch period that had been dangerous in its own right, I spent the class periods reading through the Survivor's Record, organizing my thoughts and scribbling them into my notebook as I waited for night to fall.

I'd been under the impression that as long as I was careful around the unknowns — the thing in the mirror, the Teacher, and the rest — I'd be fine. That, I was beginning to realize, had been a serious miscalculation.

From morning through lunch, the sheer unreality of being dragged into this place, the things I had to process and accept, and the cocktail of terror and dread had all been swirling endlessly through my head. There had been so much to do that I hadn't had room to spare a thought for anything else. But more than that, sitting still through the endless cycle of class periods and those nightmarish breaks was its own special kind of torment.

I couldn't eat a proper meal in the middle of it. I couldn't kill time. I couldn't even talk to anyone. My whole body was crawling with restlessness. And after sitting motionless for so long, a dull, stabbing ache started blooming in one place after another — not some bizarre supernatural phenomenon, just the ordinary side effect of holding an uncomfortable posture for hours on end.

By what would have been the end of seventh period in the real world, I couldn't take the stiffening of my body and the needles of pain any longer. During the break, I stood up as quietly as I could.

Crack. Pop.

I rose as slowly as possible, but my joints — locked rigid for so long — screamed in protest. The accumulated stiffness had long since passed any reasonable limit. I desperately wanted to stretch and let out even a thin little groan, but with the "students" all around me, that wasn't an option. I suffered through it in silence for a moment, then walked carefully toward the back door.

Rattle.

The door opened easily. I leaned my head out just far enough to scan the hallway with my eyes alone.

Hmm...

Fortunately, nothing strange was waiting out there — only that same unreal white corridor, lined with classrooms stretching on forever like a repeating fractal. Directly ahead, I could see the bathroom.

I walked over as if nothing were wrong and stepped inside. The moment the door shut behind me, I stretched up and turned the lock above it. The mechanism spun smoothly, then settled with a metallic click that confirmed the bathroom was sealed.

I went straight to the far end, finally let the tension drain from my body, and slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor.

"Haaah—"

The sound of my own sigh felt foreign. Come to think of it, I hadn't opened my mouth to make a single sound since talking with Yeom Sang-hyeon that morning on the way to school. Even by the simplest math — an hour per period, four hours through lunch — and factoring in the hours I'd already burned dying and looping, I'd gone at least half a day without speaking a word.

Now that the tension I'd been carrying for hours was finally loosening, the rebound hit hard. The urge to just collapse and sleep kept rising up.

"...Having to sit through these insane, incomprehensible 'classes.' Breaks crawling with lunatics. One wrong move at lunch and you're dead on the spot. Absolute goddamn hell."

Dying three times in a single day — was that even supposed to be possible?

Getting the words out in a voice rough from disuse, half complaint and half monologue, left my head feeling a little clearer. I sat there blankly for a while, staring into the empty air of the bathroom.

...

...

...

...This bathroom is... ridiculously clean.

Looking around, the place was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so spotless it felt almost alien. Not that I was complaining — it was just so different from what I'd expected that curiosity got the better of me. In the Survivor's Record, I'd clearly seen "students" filing in here. What exactly were they doing during breaks that left the place this pristine?

I glanced sideways. All five stall doors sat quietly closed.

...Judging by the fact that the Survivor's Record hadn't said anything special about them, whatever was behind those doors was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠probably safe enough.

I turned it over for a moment, then gave up and decided to empty my mind and just sit still. After that brief rest, I forced my unwilling body back to its feet before the break ended and headed for the door.

I grabbed the handle and pulled. It only rattled. It wouldn't open. I panicked for half a second before remembering I'd locked it myself, and undid the latch.

Screee—scrape—

A sharp sound like glass being scraped set my nerves on edge. I looked sideways — and there in the bathroom mirror was me, smiling, a rusted pair of scissors in one hand.

...Oh, for fuck's sake. Can't even take a break. You piece of shit.

Leaving the sharp, glass-shattering shriek behind me beyond the open door, I fled the bathroom and made my way back to the classroom.

The short break ended, and I went back to enduring class periods and recesses in turn. Sitting still over and over like that, I felt like my mind was going to come apart. During class especially, even shifting my posture once was enough to make the Teacher start staring straight at me — so I couldn't move freely at all.

The desk and chair I'd knocked over at lunch must have left something wrong behind, because midway through a period, the "student" sitting there began to sway side to side with a creaking sound. It wasn't particularly loud, and the movement was so subtle you wouldn't notice unless you were watching carefully — but within seconds of the noise, the Teacher was already walking straight toward that student.

I'd already had more than enough ugliness forced into my eyes. I didn't need to watch this too.

I quietly closed my eyes. Silence held for a moment — then came a sound like something striking a cheek.

Slap.

...And it wasn't just once.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

.

.

.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

Dozens of impacts rang out, and then the sound changed — as if something wet and clinging had gotten involved — into a thick, sticky squelch that kept repeating. That grotesque noise filled the classroom without end, until all at once it cut off as cleanly as if it had never existed.

I cracked my eyes open. The Teacher was still lecturing at the blackboard, as if to say they had never left it. I tried not to look. But the harder I tried not to care — the harder I tried not to think about it — the more it rose unbidden in my mind, the way a forbidden thought always does. My gaze drifted naturally toward that "student."

I couldn't see everything, facing forward as I was — but one side of their cheek had collapsed like soft clay. Looking at the ruined flesh sliding down as if it had been kneaded, I made myself a promise: I would not move during class. Not for anything.

.

.

.

...I felt a little bad about it, honestly.

...But then again, didn't you all kill me during lunch?

In ways so full of madness I couldn't even hold them in my memory?

Another break arrived. The one silver lining was that the world beyond the windows had gone nearly pitch black. One more class, and it would probably be time to escape.

Surrounded by the students' behavior and their shrieks — things I still couldn't adapt to no matter how many times I lived through them — I quietly organized the notes I'd been taking. In a way, the fact that I still hadn't adapted was almost a relief. Because if I had gotten used to this kind of deranged, lunatic behavior, that would mean I was going a little mad myself, wouldn't it?

The words I'd scrawled across my notebook during class, scattered and chaotic, stared back at me.

There were meaningless doodles mixed in, and words I couldn't even remember why I'd written — but it didn't really matter. (Part of it was that I'd just been dumping whatever was in my head onto the page without thinking, just to keep my hand moving during class.)

I'd poured every available moment into reading my own story as written in the Rule Book and piecing together the terms of the contract with the "ineffable entity" described inside it. As a result, most of the content had been fully interpreted.

Mm. I nodded in satisfaction, closed the notebook with something close to a good mood for once — and the student in front of me spilled rotten milk all over their desk. At the same time, something passed through the hallway outside, scattering a shriek thick with madness. Sitting behind a student who was giggling in broken little gasps, surrounded by dozens of milk cartons, I felt that good mood cool off fast.

.

.

.

...I no longer felt good.

After that last class from absolute hell, escape time finally arrived. People talk about torture for a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reason. Just forcing someone to sit still, unable to move, for dozens of hours — that alone is real torture.

While I was thinking that, the students all stood up and began filing slowly out of the classroom. I was curious where they were going, but I decided to bury the question. If I went out just because I was curious, it'd be a short wait and then — And. Then. You. Died. ♪ — and I'd be starting the day over again with that extra helping of morning agony.

.

.

.

.

...!

The thought hit me mid-reflection: I absolutely could not die. Part of it was that regression didn't fully erase the damage of dying — but there was something far more important than that.

If I died now... and went back to morning...

I'd have to sit through another full day of nothing but class just to reach escape again...!

If I died, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd have to endure this torture all over before the chance to escape came back around.

No matter what.

By any means necessary.

I finish this escape on a single coin.

That sudden realization filled me with determination right up to the top of my skull. I waited for the escape to begin — and then looked at the student sitting at the very front of the classroom.

Hmm... Is that one planning to escape today too?

Watching them, a question surfaced. According to the Survivor's Record I'd read, there was only ever supposed to be one human here. So somehow, because of a penalty, I'd been forcibly dragged in on top of whoever was already trapped in that front row — and now there were two humans. What happened in a case like that?

As if answering the question the moment I formed it, students came pouring in through the back door. Roughly fifteen of them, by the look of it.

BANG!

The instant the last student entered, the back door slammed shut hard enough to nearly shatter, and with a deep rumbling the classroom lights went out. The whole room began to shake as if an earthquake had hit.

Tick... ti... tick...

Then came the sound of bulbs catching, and the lights in the classroom flickered back on.