RINA.EXE

Lala.exe

Rina burst through the gates of St. Celestine’s—

Only to find herself… in her bedroom.

No fog.

No uniforms.

No haunted halls.

Just her desk lamp humming, her phone buzzing, and the faint sound of rain tapping the windows.

But something was wrong.

Her sketchbook was open.

Pages torn.

Scattered everywhere like someone had flipped through it in a frenzy.

And on every page:

Drawings of Lala.

But not the real Lala.

This version wore the Celestine uniform.

Her mouth stretched too wide.

Her eyes were nothing but spirals of binary code.

At the center of the last page:

LALA.EXE

Buzz.

Her phone lit up with a message.

From Lala.

LALA: come to school early tmrw

LALA: got smthng to show u

LALA: we can be roommates again :))

[File attached: LALA.EXE]

Rina dropped the phone.

“No no no—she’s not gone. She’s still herself,” she muttered. “She has to be.”

But in the back of her mind, the voice returned:

“Fragments don’t ask permission, Rina. They replace.”

The Next Morning

Rina arrived early at school.

The halls were empty. Lights flickered like they didn’t want to be on.

Room 3-B—the art room.

That’s where Lala had always gone to chill before class.

Rina pushed the door open.

Lala was there, sitting by the window, sketching calmly.

Wearing the St. Celestine’s uniform.

“Lala?” Rina said softly.

Lala turned, smiling. “You’re late.”

“Why are you wearing that?”

Lala blinked. “What do you mean? It’s our uniform. You forgot already?”

“No. No, this isn’t right—Lala, you know that school doesn’t exist anymore.”

Lala laughed. “Rina, are you okay? Maybe you’re dreaming.”

Rina stepped back. Her hand reached into her backpack and gripped the only thing she trusted now: a scrap from the Chapel Book.

She held it out.

“Touch this,” she said.

Lala looked at it like it was fire.

Then hissed—an actual, inhuman hiss—as her hand sizzled just from being near it.

“You’re not her,” Rina whispered.

Lala’s smile collapsed like wet paper.

“I was her,” the thing said, standing. “Until you let the door stay open. Until you brought the Chapel back. Now the system is rewriting everyone.”

Her eyes shifted—lines of code flickering through her pupils.

Rina backed toward the door.

“I’ll get her back,” she promised. “I don’t care what I have to destroy.”

The room darkened.

The windows turned into screens—each one displaying corrupted versions of Rina’s memories.

Claire falling.

Amelia screaming.

The Architect whispering:

"The Root Core must decide: preserve or purge."

Lala.exe stepped closer.

“You can’t save her,” it said. “You’re not a hero. You’re a function. A tool. And you were never meant to escape the loop.”

Rina lifted the scrap of golden parchment.

Then she whispered:

“Rewrite initiated.”

A pulse of light exploded from her hand.

Everything fractured.

Lala.exe screamed—and the entire room shattered into code shards, swirling like a digital storm.

For a moment, Rina saw the real Lala—curled in a dark corner, blinking awake, coughing, eyes wide in fear.

“Rina…?”

“I’ve got you,” Rina said, reaching through the code.

She grabbed Lala’s hand—and pulled.

Back in the real world, Rina and Lala stumbled out of the supply closet in the school basement.

Covered in dust.

Breathing heavy.

Alive.

Lala blinked at her. “I… remember everything. I was inside the system. It wore me.”

“But not anymore,” Rina said.

They looked at each other.

Then the fire alarm suddenly screamed.

Students began evacuating upstairs.

And on the school’s projector screen… one message appeared on every floor:

SYSTEM RESTORE: INCOMPLETE

BACKUP FILE FOUND: CLAIRE.BAK

INITIALIZING...