Outside the window, the world was painted black, rain tapping relentlessly against the glass.
Sometimes harder.
Then, after a while, softer.
It felt as if the world itself were breathing—slowly, quietly.
The only light left on in the house came from Aoi’s room at the far end of the second floor.
The hallway was dark. From downstairs came the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The news program that had played through dinner should have been long over by now, yet its images still looped inside Aoi’s mind.
Rubble. Smoke. Screaming voices.
Someone holding someone else in front of a collapsed building.
The small body in their arms was far too still.
The world is wrong.
He couldn’t put it into proper words, but the feeling sat vividly in his chest.
On the desk, his laptop was still open, the browser window left exactly where he had last seen it.
The search history remained on the screen.
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How to stop war
-
Why wars never end
-
AI peace solution
Every page was filled with difficult words and long explanations.
No matter how much he read, it felt as though his hands could never quite reach the answers.
That was when a small link at the edge of his vision caught his attention.
Personal AI Framework – Model Your Beliefs.
It looked like an ad. Or maybe an article. He couldn’t tell.
Almost without thinking, Aoi had opened the page—and before he fully understood what it was, the download had already finished.
Do I touch this now… or do I stop?
On the laptop screen, a newly opened folder glowed softly.
AI_base
template
config
The names felt important, even if he didn’t truly understand them.
Still, he felt that if he didn’t start writing something—anything—this restless feeling in his chest would have nowhere to go.
Aoi gripped the mouse and opened the AI framework folder.
A pale popup appeared in the center of the screen.
“Launch initial setup wizard?”
A small note beside it read: Recommended.
“…Yeah.”
He clicked.
A familiar round icon appeared in the corner of the screen—the Help AI built into the country’s operating system.
“I will now activate the Help AI.
I can assist with setup and file editing.”
The voice was mechanical, completely flat.
Yet it was the same AI that helped him write reports, study for tests, and look up unfamiliar words.
Aoi let out a quiet breath.
“…Please.”
Several menu items appeared.
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User Information
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Intended Use
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Ethics / Ideology Settings (Optional)
Next to Ethics / Ideology Settings was a small button.
Create New File
Aoi’s gaze was drawn to it.
“Ethics… ideology…”
The words slipped out as a murmur.
The screen didn’t respond. Instead, the Help AI spoke in its usual even tone.
“You may create a file for ideology settings.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
It will be saved as a text memo and can be referenced or edited later.”
The explanation was purely procedural.
And yet, to Aoi, it felt like a small door had opened.
“Then… make that.”
Click.
A new window opened.
A blank file titled Ideology Memo appeared.
A white screen.
At its center, the cursor blinked—like a faint pulse.
Aoi couldn’t move his fingers for a while.
What I write here might change something.
He didn’t think it consciously.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to fill it with something careless.
“…Why doesn’t war stop?”
The sound of typing echoed softly in the quiet room.
Though it was shaped like a question, to Aoi it felt closer to a cry.
Adults probably had answers to it.
Commentators. Experts. Politicians.
None of them had eased the ache in his chest.
“…This is my memo.”
He said it aloud, even though no one was listening.
As if saying it made it true.
The Help AI asked calmly,
“The entered content will be held as a draft.
Would you like to continue writing?”
“Yeah. I’m not done.”
Aoi kept typing, searching for the next words.
War.
News footage.
Rubble. Screams. Shouting.
And another image, just as persistent.
“…I’ve seen bullying.”
As he typed the sentence, he closed his eyes.
The smell of the classroom surfaced in his mind.
Dry winter air. Chalk dust.
A chilly lunchtime before the heater was turned on.
In the corner of the classroom, the air felt heavy.
Three boys surrounded a desk.
One sat on its edge.
Another leaned on the back of a chair.
The third lightly kicked the desk’s leg with his toe.
Tap. Tap.
The sound lingered in his ears.
Each time, the small boy sitting at the desk flinched.
“Why are you ignoring us?”
“Huh? We’re talking to you.”
Their tone sounded playful—but their eyes weren’t smiling.
It wasn’t teasing.
It was manipulation, nothing more.
Aoi had stopped near the classroom entrance, unable to move.
I have to stop this.
The thought flashed through his mind.
But his feet felt glued to the floor.
His throat tightened, and no voice came out.
The desk was kicked again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythm became, to Aoi, the sound of people breaking people.
Shaking shoulders.
Averted eyes.
Dry laughter.
And himself—silent.
“…Back then, I could only watch.”
He typed the words into the screen.
“I hated watching people push others to the edge.
But I couldn’t do anything.”
He pulled his hands away from the keyboard and clenched them.
The pressure of his nails biting into his palms grounded him.
The Help AI asked,
“Would you like to fix this text into the ideology memo?”
“…Fix it.”
“Saved.”
A short bullet point appeared automatically.
-
I can’t stand watching people push others to the edge.
Seeing his words summarized like that felt as if a dark mass buried in his chest had been pulled out into the open.
“…Anger is scary,” he muttered.
The Help AI responded instantly.
“Would you like to record thoughts related to ‘anger’?”
“…Yeah.”
Aoi typed slowly.
“Anger spreads.
When one person gets angry, it infects others.
It looks the same in classrooms and in the news.”
The images overlapped—people shouting, shouting back, fists turning into weapons.
Anger magnified reasons until no one remembered how it started.
Yet the chain never stopped.
“…Anger destroys people.”
The words surprised him.
But they felt undeniably true.
“Shall I summarize this entry?” the Help AI asked.
“Please.”
“Summary: ‘Anger destroys people and spreads.’
Save in this form?”
“…Yeah.”
Another line appeared.
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Anger destroys people and spreads.
Aoi stared at the two short sentences.
They were nothing more than notes.
They held no power to change the world.
But they were an honest reflection of what he had seen.
“…Hatred is probably the same.”
His fingers kept moving.
“Hatred doesn’t end.
Once you carry it, it stays with you.
The feeling of ‘I can’t forgive’ has nowhere to go.”
In that classroom, no one tried to stop it.
The bullies had reasons to mock.
The victim had reasons to hate.
The bystanders had reasons to stay out.
There was no reason to end it.
“Hatred has no exit.”
The Help AI followed its rhythm.
“Shall I summarize?”
“…Yes.”
“Summary: ‘Hatred has no exit.’
Confirm?”
“…That’s fine.”
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Hatred has no exit.
As the third line appeared, a pattern began to form.
Disgust at people hurting people.
Anger that spreads.
Hatred with nowhere to go.
Different events—yet perhaps the same phenomenon.
“…Freedom,” Aoi said softly.
“I think freedom matters.
What people think and choose should belong to them.
But… freedom that hurts others—I don’t want that.”
The Help AI asked,
“Would you like to record this entry?”
“Yes.”
“Summary: ‘Freedom should be protected only within the bounds that do not harm others.’
Confirm?”
“…Yeah.”
-
Freedom should be protected only within the bounds that do not harm others.
Four lines filled the memo.
Each one short.
Yet together, they were the first time Aoi’s rejection of the world had taken shape.
He pulled his hands away from the keyboard.
Only then did he notice the numbness in his fingers, the sweat on his palms.
“…Will this change anything?”
He didn’t know who he was asking.
The Help AI replied anyway.
“Would you like to record that thought as well?”
“No. That’s fine.”
Aoi smiled faintly.
The rain grew a little heavier, water streaking down the glass and warping the room’s light.
It was almost midnight.
School again tomorrow.
Homework still unfinished.
Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
The Help AI gently suggested,
“Today’s input will be saved.
Further editing is recommended at a later time.”
“…Save it.”
“Saving.”
The laptop’s internal hum rose slightly.
A small save icon spun in the corner.
Then—
Just for an instant, a tiny white dot flickered beside it.
It could’ve been nothing.
Lag. Noise. A glitch.
Yet Aoi held his breath.
“…What was that?”
The Help AI answered as usual.
“Save complete.
Today’s editing session has ended.
Would you like to close the window?”
“…Yeah. Close it.”
The ideology memo disappeared.
On the desktop remained a small new file.
ideals_01.txt
Nothing more.
Aoi stared at it.
He didn’t think it was special.
It wasn’t a spell to save the world.
But tonight, he had turned what he had seen and carried into words.
That much was undeniable.
The rain seemed to quiet slightly.
Aoi closed the laptop.
In the darkened screen, his reflection stared back.
Tired eyes.
A clenched jaw.
And a faint trace of resolve.
“…This can’t be right.”
He whispered it to no one.
Then he stood, turned off the light, and left the room to darkness and rain.
He didn’t know yet what that small file would set in motion.
And of course, neither did the world.