The Too-Naive Teacher
Monday was always the day most Zenith Warriors students disliked the most.
Not because the lessons were too difficult or the assignments had piled up. It was because the atmosphere at school felt different on Mondays. After two days off, the school hallways filled once again with the sound of footsteps, student conversations, chairs scraping across the floor, and shouts from a few kids who hadn't even had time to put their bags down properly.
Zenith Warriors looked like an ordinary school again.
At least from the outside.
The main building stood grandly, painted grayish white. The field sat right in the middle of the school complex, surrounded by classroom buildings, laboratories, the library, the teachers' offices, and a sports building far larger than those found at ordinary schools.
But to some people who had been there for a long time, Zenith Warriors was more than just a school.
Something was hidden behind its walls.
Something no one ever talked about openly.
That morning, Raka walked through the school gate at an easy pace. His bag hung from one shoulder. His face still looked the same as always—calm, expressionless, and impossible to read.
Lately, his mind had been filled with questions.
About Alexander.
About the strange incidents that had occurred at school.
And above all, about something that seemed to be deliberately hidden from the students.
Raka didn't know exactly what he was looking for.
But he knew one thing.
Zenith Warriors was hiding a secret.
And the longer he stayed at the school, the more things began to feel impossible to explain.
Raka entered the main building just as the first bell rang.
He headed toward Class 12-B.
But before he reached the classroom, his attention was drawn to a small crowd near the teachers' offices.
Several students stood there, whispering.
“They say there's a new teacher.”
“A new teacher?”
“Yeah. He starts teaching today.”
“What subject?”
“No idea.”
Raka simply walked past them without joining the conversation.
He wasn't particularly interested in the arrival of a new teacher.
To him, teachers came and went. It wasn't important.
But when Raka entered the classroom, he found several of his classmates discussing the same thing.
“They say the new teacher's weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Apparently he walked into the wrong class.”
Several students laughed.
Raka sat down and set his bag beside him.
Not long afterward, the classroom door opened.
A man walked in.
He looked to be in his thirties. His appearance didn't look anything like that of a teacher newly arriving at an elite school like Zenith Warriors. His shirt was slightly wrinkled. His hair wasn't very neat. Some parts of it even looked as though he'd just combed them with his fingers.
He carried several books and a thin folder.
The man stood at the front of the classroom.
He looked around.
Then he looked at the classroom sign.
Then he looked back at the students.
“Uh...”
He furrowed his brow.
“This is Class 12-A, right?”
Several students immediately exchanged glances.
One of them chuckled.
“Sir, this is 12-B.”
The teacher fell silent.
He looked at the classroom sign again.
“Oh...”
He nodded slowly.
“Right. I get the classes mixed up a lot.”
Several students burst out laughing.
One covered his mouth so it wouldn't be too obvious.
The teacher smiled along with them.
“Come on, don't laugh at me.”
His laugh sounded awkward.
“I'm still new.”
Raka watched from his seat.
There was nothing strange about him.
At least at first glance.
The teacher looked like someone who really was careless.
Very careless.
“My name is Arman Pradipta,” he said as he wrote his name on the board.
His handwriting was fairly neat.
The complete opposite of his appearance.
“I'll be teaching you starting today.”
A student raised his hand.
“Sir, where did you teach before this?”
Arman turned toward him.
“At another school.”
“Where, sir?”
Arman thought for a moment.
“Somewhere with a school, I guess.”
The class laughed again.
Arman raised both hands.
“Okay, I haven't learned all your personalities yet. So please don't make me any more confused.”
The mood in the classroom relaxed.
Several students were starting to like the new teacher.
Raka wasn't.
Not because Arman had done anything wrong.
Quite the opposite.
Something about him felt too deliberate.
The way he spoke.
The way he laughed.
The way he pretended to be confused.
Everything looked like a teacher who was simply too naive.
But Raka had learned one thing since coming to Zenith Warriors.
The person who looked the most ordinary wasn't necessarily ordinary at all.
The lesson began.
Arman opened a book and explained the material like any other teacher.
Every so often, he stopped because he'd forgotten the page.
“Hold on...”
He flipped through several pages.
“What page was it again?”
“One hundred twelve, sir,” a student answered.
“Oh, right.”
Arman smiled.
“Thanks.”
Several students chuckled again.
Raka stayed silent.
He wasn't really paying attention to the lesson. His eyes kept drifting toward Arman instead.
The teacher taught in a relaxed manner.
Yet something made Raka increasingly certain that Arman wasn't as simple as he appeared.
It started when Arman suddenly stopped explaining.
He closed his book.
“By the way...”
He looked around the entire class.
“What time do students here usually go home?”
Several students exchanged glances.
“Usually at three, sir.”
“What if there's an activity?”
“Sometimes we stay until late afternoon.”
Arman nodded.
He picked up a pen.
Then he wrote something in a small notebook.
Raka watched the movement.
A moment later, Arman asked another question.
“Do the teachers often go behind the sports building?”
The classroom suddenly grew quieter.
The question sounded strange.
A student answered casually.
“Sometimes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Well... there's a storage room and a few old rooms back there.”
Arman nodded again.
“Old rooms?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they still being used?”
“Some of them.”
Arman began taking notes again.
Raka narrowed his eyes.
The next question was even stranger.
“Which student causes the most trouble?”
Several students immediately laughed.
“Sir, there are a lot of them.”
“Who causes the most?”
One of the students gave a name.
Arman stopped writing.
His expression changed.
For only a fraction of a second.
It was very brief.
But Raka saw it.
Arman then smiled as usual.
“Oh.”
He wrote something else.
“Why does he cause trouble so often?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“I see.”
Arman opened his book again, as if the question had never been asked.
But Raka didn't forget it.
He began noticing a pattern.
Every time Arman asked about something related to the school, he took notes.
Not the lesson material.
Not students' names for attendance.
Information about the school.
Dismissal times.
Certain places.
Teachers.
Students considered troublemakers.
And every time someone mentioned a particular name, Arman's expression changed.
Slightly.
Very slightly.
But enough for someone accustomed to watching other people's behavior.
Raka stared at the teacher from a distance.
“What a strange new teacher,” he thought.
The recess bell rang.
The students immediately stood up.
The classroom became noisy.
Arman tidied up his books.
One of the students approached him.
“Sir, which way is the cafeteria?”
Arman looked at him.
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you're a teacher.”
Arman laughed.
“I still haven't memorized the cafeteria's location.”
The student laughed.
“Seriously, sir?”
“Seriously.”
Arman then left the classroom with several students.
Raka remained seated.
He watched Arman until the teacher disappeared at the end of the corridor.
Something didn't add up.
A new teacher might not know all the classrooms yet.
He might not know where the cafeteria was, either.
But why was he so interested in the sports building?
Why did he want to know which students caused trouble?
And why was he writing all that information down?
Raka didn't jump to conclusions.
He knew that drawing conclusions too quickly could be a mistake.
So he simply kept all those questions in his mind.
The day went on as usual.
But Raka began spotting Arman from a distance several times.
The teacher always looked the same.
Naive.
Awkward.
Sometimes he called students by the wrong names.
Sometimes he forgot which room he was looking for.
He had even once been seen standing outside the teachers' offices with an upside-down folder in his hands.
Several students began making him the butt of their jokes.
“Mr. Arman probably doesn't feel like his day is complete unless he gets lost at least once.”
Arman only laughed.
“Yeah, maybe.”
No one suspected a thing.
Except Raka.
That afternoon, as most students began leaving school, Arman didn't go home right away.
He stood in one of the second-floor corridors.
Two paths lay before him.
To the left was the teachers' office.
To the right was the back section of the school building.
Arman looked left.
Then right.
He made sure no one was around.
A few students could still be seen on the field.
But the corridor leading to the archive room appeared empty.
Arman started walking.
His pace was slow.
He wasn't in a hurry.
The farther he went, the more his expression changed.
The awkward smile that had appeared on his face all morning slowly vanished.
His shoulders, previously relaxed, straightened.
His gaze sharpened.
There was no foolish-looking new teacher anymore.
All that remained was someone who knew exactly what he was looking for.
Arman stopped in front of a door.
The archive room.
He looked around one more time.
There was no one there.
His hand reached for the doorknob.
Click.
The door opened.
The room was dark and dusty.
Tall shelves filled nearly every wall.
Old files were stacked inside boxes.
Some had yellowed with age.
Arman turned on the light.
White light illuminated the room.
He closed the door from inside.
Then he took a small key from his pocket.
He walked toward one of the shelves.
He wasn't searching randomly.
He knew what he was looking for.
His hand slid along several folders.
One.
Two.
Three.
Until it finally stopped.
Arman pulled out a dark brown folder.
A thin layer of dust clung to its surface.
He blew it off gently.
Then he opened the folder.
The first page contained a student's identity information.
A photograph of a boy was attached at the top.
His face still looked young.
A name appeared beneath the photograph.
Adrian Mahesa.
Arman fell silent.
His eyes remained fixed on the photograph for a long time.
The name wasn't unfamiliar to him.
In fact, it was the very reason he had come to Zenith Warriors.
He reread the information beneath the photograph.
Name: Adrian Mahesa.
Class: XI-C.
Status: Deceased.
Arman's finger stopped above the page.
Several seconds passed in silence.
He drew a breath.
Then he opened the next document.
A school report.
There was a date.
The name of a teacher.
A description of the incident.
The official cause of Adrian Mahesa's death was written there.
But the more Arman read, the clearer it became that something was wrong.
Some sections of the report were far too brief.
Several pages lacked complete explanations.
A section that should have contained witness statements was blank.
Certain names were missing.
The time of the incident wasn't explained in detail.
Arman turned to the next page.
Blank.
The next page.
Blank.
He opened another document tucked behind it.
Its contents were nearly identical.
An official report.
A brief conclusion.
Then the case was closed.
Arman frowned.
“If it really was all an accident...”
His voice was barely audible.
He stared at Adrian's photograph.
“...why were so many sections removed?”
His hand clenched.
Arman had read the document many times.
But every time he read it, the same questions surfaced.
How could a student die, yet so much vital information go unrecorded?
Why weren't the witnesses clearly identified?
Why did some documents contain nothing but conclusions?
And most importantly—
why did the case seem to have been deliberately made impossible to trace?
Arman opened the back of the folder.
There was a single sheet of paper that differed from the other documents.
The paper was thinner.
It bore no official school letterhead.
There was no signature.
Only a few brief notes.
Arman read them.
His eyes moved slowly from the first line to the last.
His expression grew more serious.
He didn't know who had written the notes.
But their contents were enough to convince him that Adrian's death hadn't been an ordinary incident.
Arman put the sheet back where he had found it.
Then he looked at Adrian's photograph.
“I didn't come here to believe a report that says the case is closed.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“I came here to find out what really happened.”
Suddenly—
Footsteps sounded outside.
Arman went silent at once.
The footsteps drew closer.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Arman quickly closed the folder.
He returned it to its place.
His expression changed within seconds.
The serious look disappeared.
His shoulders relaxed again.
The awkward smile returned.
He even mussed up his own hair to look like a teacher who was genuinely confused and searching for something.
His hand had just touched the doorknob when—
The door opened.
Raka stood there.
They stared at each other.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Arman was the first to smile.
“Oh, Raka.”
His voice sounded naive again.
“You haven't gone home yet?”
Raka didn't answer immediately.
His gaze moved from Arman's face to the room behind him.
Then back to Arman.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“What are you looking for?”
Arman gave a small laugh.
“Ah... this?”
He looked around.
“I'm just looking for student records.”
He held up a different folder.
“I'm still a new teacher.”
Raka remained silent.
His eyes studied the folder.
Then Arman's hands.
Nothing looked suspicious.
But Raka knew Arman was hiding something.
“Student records?”
“Yeah.”
“In the archive room?”
Arman laughed.
“That's where they're kept, right?”
Raka didn't answer.
Arman smiled again.
“I'm still getting to know the school.”
Raka stared at him for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“I see.”
He turned around.
His footsteps began to recede.
Arman remained standing in the doorway.
Waiting.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Raka kept walking.
Arman let out a small sigh.
But when Raka was almost at the end of the corridor, he stopped.
Arman watched him.
Raka didn't turn around.
Then he continued walking.
Arman closed the door.
Click.
The moment it shut, the smile vanished from his face.
He stood still for several seconds.
“That kid...”
Arman stared at the door.
His gaze changed.
He knew Raka wasn't an ordinary student.
There was something in the way that boy looked at people.
As if Raka could see things others didn't want revealed.
Arman returned to the shelf.
He took out the folder.
He opened it.
Adrian's photograph appeared again.
Arman stared at it for a long time.
“I'm sorry.”
His voice was quiet.
“Your case shouldn't have ended like this.”
He clenched his fist.
“I'll find out what really happened to you.”
Outside the archive room, Raka's footsteps had stopped.
He stood several yards from the door.
He hadn't really left.
He stared at the floor.
Arman's voice had sounded faintly through the door.
Raka couldn't hear every word.
But one thing was clear enough.
The new teacher was looking for something.
And it wasn't ordinary student records.
Raka slowly turned toward the archive room door.
He had sensed something strange from the beginning.
Now he was even more certain.
The new teacher wasn't as foolish as he pretended to be.
Raka walked back a few steps.
He stopped at the end of the hallway.
The archive room door was still visible from there.
He didn't know who Adrian Mahesa was.
Not yet.
But the name was now lodged in his mind.
Adrian Mahesa.
XI-C.
Deceased.
A case that should have been over.
Yet someone was still searching for answers.
Raka drew a breath.
Until now, he'd assumed he was the only one beginning to dig into something about Zenith Warriors.
Apparently not.
There was someone else.
Someone who might have been searching for answers long before Raka ever came to the school.
Raka stared down the hallway as it grew dark.
“So who is Mr. Arman, really?”
There was no answer.
Only the sound of wind coming through a slightly open window.
Meanwhile, inside the archive room, Arman still stood before the desk.
He reopened Adrian's documents.
He examined the pages one by one.
He wasn't looking for another student's name.
He was looking for patterns.
Dates.
Places.
Teachers' names.
Students' names.
Small notes.
Every possibility.
Every detail that didn't fit.
Arman took a personal notebook from his bag.
Several names appeared on the first page.
Some had already been marked.
He added a new note.
Adrian Mahesa — XI-C.
Then, beneath it, he wrote:
Incomplete report.
He paused.
Then added:
Need to find witnesses.
Arman closed the notebook.
His gaze returned to the folder.
He knew finding the truth at Zenith Warriors wouldn't be easy.
Too many people might know something.
And perhaps even more people didn't want that secret exposed.
But Arman hadn't come to back down.
He knew the risks.
He knew that the deeper he searched, the more likely someone was to realize what he was doing.
But there was a reason he had come anyway.
Adrian.
A student whose name had nearly vanished from the school's records.
A student whose death had left behind only a few pages of reports.
A student who seemed never to have truly received an answer.
Arman looked at the photograph one more time.
“This time...”
He spoke softly.
“...I won't stop just because one report says everything is over.”
He put the photograph away again.
Then he locked the folder.
Outside, the sky began to darken.
One by one, the lights in the school buildings came on.
Zenith Warriors slowly grew quiet.
Most students had already gone home.
But a few people were still inside the school.
And without realizing it, two of them were heading toward the same destination from different directions.
Raka was trying to learn about the school.
Arman was trying to learn about a student's death.
Neither of them yet knew how their searches were connected.
They didn't know that their questions might lead them to the same place.
Raka finally left the corridor.
But before going down the stairs, he looked back.
The archive room was still closed.
The new teacher was still inside.
Raka didn't know what was in that folder.
He didn't know who Adrian Mahesa was.
And he didn't know why the name felt so important.
But one thing was certain.
He would find out.
Meanwhile, in the archive room, Arman placed the folder back on the shelf.
Before leaving, he looked at Adrian's photograph one last time.
Then he turned off the light.
He closed the door.
He turned the key.
Click.
The corridor fell silent again.
No one knew what had really happened to Adrian Mahesa.
No one knew who had removed parts of the reports.
And no one knew why Zenith Warriors seemed determined to bury a student's name along with his case.
But from that day on, one thing changed.
Two people had begun digging into the school's past.
Raka in his own way.
And Arman with a secret of his own.
They weren't working together.
They didn't even trust each other yet.
But without realizing it, their steps were beginning to lead toward the same point.
A point Zenith Warriors had kept hidden all this time.
And perhaps, if they continued searching too deeply, someone would realize that the past that should have been buried was beginning to surface again.
Raka walked out of the school building.
He put both hands in his pockets.
His face remained calm.
But his mind did not.
The name kept circling through his thoughts.
Adrian Mahesa.
Behind him, the second-floor lights slowly went out one by one.
While deep inside the building, an old secret still waited to be found.
And Raka didn't yet know that the question that had just arisen in his mind would lead him to someone who might be far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
Someone who also had a reason to make sure Zenith Warriors' past was never exposed.
Night deepened.
Zenith Warriors looked peaceful again.
But that peace existed only on the surface.
Because since Arman Pradipta's arrival, the past that had been locked away so tightly had begun to stir once more.
And without realizing it, the first step toward the truth had begun.