The red thread shimmered faintly in the dark—like it breathed.
Rizki stood frozen in the doorway of his dorm room, staring at the line of crimson light trailing out from his window and snaking along the hallway floor. It wasn't thick, barely the width of a fishing line, but it pulsed with quiet certainty. Not randomly. Not naturally.
He reached for the light switch. Nothing. The hallway remained still, the silence pressing in around him.
No wind. No footsteps. No distant motorbike echo from the city.
Only the thread.
His body moved before his thoughts caught up. Slippers brushing against the cold wood, he followed. The thread slid ahead of him as if guiding his pace, never letting him step on it, always keeping just far enough to make him chase.
He passed dorm doors—shut, dark, sleeping.
But when he looked back over his shoulder, the hallway behind him had vanished. Not physically—no. Just… blurred. Distant. Like the thread was pulling him deeper into something that bent the rules of space just slightly.
He didn't like it.
But he couldn't stop.
The thread led him down a narrow stairwell hidden behind a cracked wooden door labeled "Archives." Rizki was certain he hadn't seen it earlier that day. The letters were carved deep, aged with time, almost like the wood had grown around the word.
He hesitated.
Then the door creaked open, unprompted.
Stone steps curved downward, lit by dim amber lanterns hanging from rusted chains. The air was cooler here—damp, and thick with the scent of mold and something older. A quiet hum buzzed beneath the silence, like distant electricity trapped in rock.
The thread coiled along the stone floor, leading him down.
One step. Another.
He lost count after twelve.
The archive room felt like a vault. Walls lined with tall shelves that vanished into shadow above. The floor was rough stone, uneven, with water stains darkening the edges. Dust danced in the dim light.
Rizki's breath caught when he saw it.
At the far end of the room, the red thread lifted from the ground and coiled itself into the air, vanishing into a locker door—one that stood slightly ajar.
Someone stood beside it.
A man, tall and slender, dressed in what looked like a school uniform—but older. Outdated. Faded blue fabric with silver accents and an unfamiliar emblem on the sleeve. He faced away from Rizki, hands behind his back, still as a statue.
"You came," the man said, not turning.
His voice was soft. Clean. Not surprised.
"You left the card?" Rizki asked, his voice barely audible in the thick air.
"No. But I saw it happen. And I knew you would follow."
The red thread pulsed once more, then vanished into the locker completely—disappearing like smoke pulled into a vacuum.
Rizki stepped forward instinctively, then stopped as the man turned around.
His face was smooth. Calm. Unwrinkled.
But where his eyes should've been—there was nothing.
No sockets. No lids.
Just skin.
Rizki stumbled back.
"You've been marked now," the man said, tilting his head. "You're part of the pattern. Whether you want to be or not."
"What pattern?" Rizki's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?"
The man's lips barely moved. "You'll see it soon. If you're lucky."
Then the lights flickered.
And he was gone.
Rizki's knees nearly gave out as the man disappeared. For a moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing echoing against stone.
He backed away from the locker, heartbeat slamming like a warning drum in his chest. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't one of those elite school "tests" he'd read about online. This was something older, colder, and beyond the rules of any school.
The echo of the word "marked" still rang in his head.
He pressed his hand to his wrist. Nothing. Just skin. But the feeling remained—like something invisible had coiled itself around him and pulled tight.
On the way back through the stairwell, memories bubbled up uninvited: the exam he shouldn't have passed; the scholarship letter with no stamp or signature; the strange old man who tipped his umbrella toward him during the rain but vanished before he could say thanks.
Was this what it had all been leading to?
The air above the stairwell buzzed faintly. Rizki paused, blinking.
There, faintly etched into the wall near the ceiling, was a phrase written in elegant, looping script:
"The fortunate forget what they owe."
He stared at it for a long moment before hurrying on.
By the time he returned to his room, the sky outside was turning pale. A breeze drifted through the open window—carrying with it the scent of river water and something faintly metallic, like rust or blood.
He shut the window quietly and sat on the edge of his bed.
The silence wrapped around him again, not empty, but expectant.
And then, the tug at his wrist.
A thin red thread was looped loosely around it.
He hadn't noticed it there before.