That night, I didn’t return to the dormitory. I stayed in the school library. Perhaps because of exams, there were still quite a few students past midnight. With so many eyes around, no one would suddenly grab me by the nape and hurl me onto the stone floor. I pretended to study among the other students, then slipped into the records archive.Since mainly staff and teachers used it, the archive’s lights were off. I stood at the entrance, switched on my portable lamp, and stepped inside. This school wasn’t thorough with computerization—isolated deep in the forest, a blackout would leave them helpless—so they kept meticulous handwritten records. One of those was the dormitory log.Normally you didn’t fill it out when coming or going, but on moving in or out you had to write your name and sign. On my first day, Anna—who’d given me the green scarf—had helped me fill it in. So finding my predecessors’ names wouldn’t be hard. Once I knew their names, I was certain I could find a way forward.I wandered between the tall shelves until I found the ledger I needed. In the very last volume was my own entry. Each original ledger came with a duplicate copy, stored separately here. I pulled out the last two or three volumes and sat down on the floor.Hanging my lamp on the shelf, I opened the final volume. My hand trembled with excitement. The last page listed my departure paperwork; I flipped back one page. Someone called “Tim” or something… Building A, Room 301… departure. Thomas… Building C, Room 102, arrival. Damon, A-102, departure. Matt, B-202, arrival… I leafed through several loose pages, then stopped. A chill crawled up my nape; I shivered without realizing it.■■■■■■, B-401, departure.The name was erased—blacked out in ink. I rifled to the previous page.■■■■■■, B-401, arrival.Both the arrival and departure entries were inked out. A cold dread prickled my ear. I searched through all three volumes. By last spring’s records, twelve pages had names erased—the arrival and departure entries of six people. Of all who’d moved into B-401, only one remained un-erased:Raymond. My name.By dawn I’d uncovered the following:Their arrival dates1-a. Jérôme: spring ’97 (age 19), B-402. Nobody had used B-402 before him.1-b. Simon: winter ’96 (age 18), B-401. His first roommate was my first predecessor.1-c. Hugh: spring ’97 (age 19), B-401—same date as Jérôme. They likely knew each other before school.1-d. George: fall ’97 (age 19), B-401. His name wasn’t erased, so he might not be a predecessor; if he’s complicit, he joined last.The victims’ durations2-a. First predecessor: arrived summer ’96, left spring ’97—just after Jérôme and Hugh arrived.2-b. Second: arrived spring ’97, left spring ’97—didn’t last a month.2-c. Third: arrived summer ’97, left summer ’97—six weeks.2-d. Fourth: arrived fall ’97, left fall ’97—two weeks.2-e. Fifth: arrived fall ’97, left winter ’97—one season.2-f. Sixth: arrived spring ’98, left spring ’98—three weeks.2-g. Raymond: I’m the seventh—arrived April ’98 and lasted into June. Comparing their fates to mine, the methods of torture clearly varied.That was all the ledger revealed. Any other details—birthplaces, dates, nationalities—were inked out. Still, even one fact was a harvest: they’d begun these cruelties immediately upon arriving in spring ’97. They had overwhelmingly more experience than I. My erased-name predecessors were their test subjects.Were they still experimenting on how long the hunt must last? Or had they graduated to keeping obedient pets? Am I merely a specimen or their first “pet”? In any case, they’d invested far more time on me than on any predecessor. Discover their pattern—that was my task.I noted my findings on paper and left the archive. The dust and isolation made my head spin, my throat parched. I went to the 24-hour campus café. It was nearly four in the morning. Tired students sipped coffee and whispered.I didn’t want tea; I grabbed a Coke. As I turned, I spotted George alone in a corner, his laptop open. He met my gaze calmly, as if expecting me.I sat opposite him, holding my Coke with ice. He sipped his coffee, blue eyes cold.“All the tires were slashed.”George said, “I knew before you left.”I poured Coke into the cup.“So, did you find out who did it?”George frowned at my cup, then said, “I did.”He tapped the keyboard a few times, then swiveled the laptop. On the CCTV footage was Simon.“Musta been tough slashing all those tires alone,” I said bluntly.“So, did you report it?”“Of course not.”George turned the screen away again. “I’m not getting involved in whatever Jérôme or those kids are doing.”That was unlike Jérôme, Simon, and Hugh—who hid their purpose until the climax. George, by contrast, plainly said he knew everything, yet never took action to help me, even when he held the leverage to trouble Simon. Why did he abstain?I couldn’t simply call George an enemy. He remained a mystery. If I set a trap, should I deceive him too? Should he be ally or adversary? But recalling our talk, I realized I need not guess. George never dodged a direct question.“Why?”So I asked him honestly: “Do you want them to kill me?”George answered immediately, “‘Jérôme never kills anyone.’”I sensed the gap beneath that statement: “Hugh or Simon will kill me, then?” He said nothing. His pale-blue eyes fixed on me, then he smiled faintly.“It’s easy enough to answer, but Raymond, I don’t owe you an answer.”I caught his implication and said, “If you have questions, ask them.”George’s eyes brightened. “What’s your goal? To survive and slip away unmarked? Or…” He shuddered with strange eagerness, “even if you die, to exact brutal revenge?”I watched his fervor coolly. “Survival is humiliation; death is honor?” I studied his impassive face and continued, “You force me to choose between the two? You’re wrong, George. The one who lives wins.”He only rolled his eyes. I added, “‘Jérôme never kills anyone’ doesn’t mean I must spare everyone.”At last, George’s flawless mask cracked. His face looked calm as always, but I saw his composure shatter. He froze like a statue, then his pale eyes trembled with confusion. I feigned indifference, though I was surprised: I’d never seen George lose control. Always so cynical and rational in his detached observation… but now his eyes flickered, not with anger but with intense excitement.He said, “If you kill Jérôme…” His voice quavered. “…and truly succeed, I’ll get you out of here.”I laughed. “Why should I trust you? Prove you’re not a traitor like Simon or Hugh.”“I can prove it.” George’s blue eyes ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) glinted. “Prove it.”I replied in a colder tone than his own. George didn’t hesitate: he shut his laptop, flipped it over, and silently grabbed my attention. He retrieved a Phillips screwdriver from his bag and began removing the screws on the back. When he opened the panel, a thin rectangular plastic box sat where the CD-ROM should have been. He handed me the box.I already guessed its contents but needed confirmation. I opened it: five photographs. George’s hair was longer—golden locks to his chin—and he was being raped by two boys. The images matched those of me. His sleeping face, brutal wounds, a penis in his mouth, cum-coated anus—scenes of utter humiliation.After I viewed all five, I replaced them in the box and returned it to George. He blinked at me. We sat in silence for thirty minutes. Dawn brightened outside. My Coke had long gone flat. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.“I told you I’m the seventh. I just found all six predecessors in the ledger—there was no record of you. How do you explain that?” I said bluntly.“The records you found are of victims whose departures were complete,” George said, calling me a “victim” as coolly as I spoke. “Your name wasn’t erased because your departure isn’t finished. Once you ‘depart,’ your record will vanish too.”I countered, “How did you end your game? Jérôme and the others never stop until someone dies.”“Who said it’s over?” George’s glassy eyes gleamed. “Nothing’s over.”I stared, unable to speak—nauseated. If George, too, had suffered at Jérôme’s hands… I remembered Hugh’s cruel words about George: “So sensitive, like a girl.”

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