No sooner had the twentieth candidate settled into the final chair than the door sealed itself shut with a mechanical chime, low and unsettling.
At the head of the room stood the officer in charge, his face a mask without expression. He spoke in a voice calm yet edged with steel:
"Welcome to D6. We are a company devoted to fostering rising talent… but we also hold discipline in the highest regard. We have rules of our own, and we expect every one of you to honor them. But before I explain the details—sign the contracts before you. Quickly."
A faint smile ghosted across his lips.
"There is no need to read them. The font is too small, in any case, and the document runs over forty pages. Sign first—clarity will come later."
A hush fell over the room. One by one, the candidates obeyed, each hand guided by something unseen. It was submission, or the deeper force of despair, the kind that wears the mask of hope.
Only Lia sat frozen, torn between instinct's warning and the rising tide of confusion. How could anyone sign a covenant unseen? What if its terms bound her to something irrevocable? Questions battered her mind, relentless as storm-surf. Yet all had signed. She alone remained.
The officer drew closer, his eyes void of feeling, his tone stripped of mercy:
"If you are unwilling to sign, you may leave."
Pressure. A veiled threat. And an empty chair demanding her choice. Lia yielded—if only for now. With a trembling hand she gripped the pen and inscribed her name. Yet even as the ink dried, she knew this was no ordinary signature.
The officer's demeanor shifted, faint relief softening his features for the first time. As though he had lifted a weight, he straightened and spoke with renewed clarity:
"Thank you for your trust. Now allow me to explain the system that governs this place."
Breath caught in throats. Every ear strained.
"First, you must understand this: each of you is talented—without doubt. You have come here bearing dreams, shaped by circumstances we recognize and respect. They will serve as the foundation of our success."
He paused, his voice dropping into something darker:
"But not all possess the golden will that endures to the end. Some falter midway—and that costs us dearly. It damages
our name. Therefore, we have one small condition. Before you pursue your dreams… You must play a game."
Eyes darted across the room. Was it just? Or a threat wrapped in simplicity?
"The game will be staged in levels. Only the victors move forward."
Before he could elaborate, a furious voice shattered the silence:
"Is this a joke? We signed up because we need work—because we need money! Not to have our worth measured in some game. This is absurd!"
Another voice rose in agreement, sharp with outrage:
"He's right! This is madness!"
The officer did not flinch. His expression returned to stone. He pressed a small button, and at once, several towering figures in black entered, looming behind the two rebels like shadows made flesh.
"Thank you for your time," the officer said coldly. "You are dismissed. The contract—though you ignored makes clear: no speech without permission, no protest, no incitement. The penalty is immediate expulsion."
Before they could speak again, the two were dragged from the room.
A heavy silence descended. No one spoke. Fear clamped their mouths shut. In their eyes, one truth burned clear—this wasn't a talent agency. It was a trap.
Lia stared into the void, her thoughts echoing one refrain—her signature had been a seal, binding her to a mistake beyond recall. But it was too late. There was no turning back.
Now, every figure sat frozen, statues carved of dread, scarcely daring to breathe lest they too be cast out.
The officer continued as though nothing had transpired, his voice calm, drained of all humanity:
"Now you are eighteen. You will be divided into three groups. Each group will consist of six players, and within each—three pairs: two, two, and two."
He leaned forward, the weight of his words chilling the air.
"And now, I will explain the rules of the game. Listen well."