When the student numbers scrolled across the electronic screen at the entrance, I was pulling my sleeve down, covering the identification strip on the inside of my wrist.
The screen was set to a high brightness. White text against a black background felt slightly glaring.
Fourth Year, No. 4.
The characters paused for two seconds, then slid upward.
The door unlocked without a sound.
I stepped in with the person ahead of me.
A sensing strip was embedded along the inner side of the doorframe.
When you passed through, there was a faint electric sound.
Almost inaudible.
But if you focused, you could detect that subtle vibration.
Most of the seats were already occupied.
There were no fixed seat numbers, yet the space felt invisibly divided.
The front rows naturally belonged to those with higher ability ratings.
Seats by the windows were usually taken by those with larger movement ranges.
Near the door sat those with faster reaction speeds.
I took a seat slightly toward the back, near the center.
It wouldn't draw attention.
But it wouldn't be completely ignored either.
The monitoring light glowed at the center of the ceiling.
A red dot blinked steadily.
We were used to its presence.
Someone sat down behind me.
The chair legs scraped lightly across the floor.
"Four."
I turned.
It was another No. 4 from the same class.
One grade above me.
In the corridor, people called him Five-Four.
They called me Double Four.
The distinction was efficient.
No emotion.
Just classification.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
We didn't speak further.
Sharing a number didn't create closeness.
If anything, it felt like being placed under the same label—then separated by rank.
When the instructor entered, the atmosphere lowered naturally.
No one needed to say anything.
The class began.
Today's lesson was precision training under ability suppression.
The suppression devices along the walls activated.
Soft blue indicator lights came on.
The internal feedback of our abilities was reduced to a minimum.
We had to perform standard movements under this condition.
Raise.
Press down.
Pause.
Turn.
The rhythm was projected on the front screen.
Frame by frame.
Each movement had a set time.
I followed the sequence.
My movements were small.
Force kept within limits.
Neither early nor delayed.
The recording board updated in real time at the side.
Numbers shifted.
Error margins displayed beside them.
I stayed within the acceptable range.
Centered.
Not reaching the top.
Not slipping below.
The instructor occasionally stopped and looked toward the front rows.
Pointing out someone's deviation.
Or demonstrating a more precise angle.
Those called on tensed up.
Those praised showed no obvious expression.
There were no exaggerated emotions here.
Only data.
I liked data.
Data didn't misunderstand you.
It didn't overestimate you either.
Midway through the class, suppression intensity increased by one level.
Breathing in the chest became flatter.
Arm movements required more deliberate control.
Someone lost rhythm by a beat.
A prompt appeared instantly on the projection.
I stabilized.
My wrist rotated within the smallest range.
My fingertips maintained a straight line.
I was good at this.
Not because of talent.
Because I was used to fitting myself into standards.
When the bell rang, the suppression lights turned off.
The air felt lighter.
Someone exhaled deeply.
The corridor quickly grew noisy.
Footsteps overlapped.
Voices intertwined.
"I heard there's another pair in the Fifth Year."
"Which class?"
"Class Five. No. 2 and No. 6."
Student numbers were remembered faster than names.
As for the process, it didn't matter.
I moved forward with the crowd.
Didn't join the conversation.
Seventh Year was mentioned occasionally.
Voices lowered.
Like talking about a distant structure.
Visible.
But untouchable.
The remaining morning classes moved faster.
In the preparation phase before evaluation, everyone became especially quiet.
Evaluation determined promotion probability.
And also how long you could stay.
I cared.
Not for transition.
But to avoid being stuck at the boundary again.
Twice already.
It was recorded.
The instructor said it was normal fluctuation.
I accepted that.
An average meant safety.
It also meant ambiguity.
Lunch time.
The cafeteria lighting was pale.
The flow of people was dense.
Seats by the window were taken by upperclassmen.
Near the exits were those who moved quickly.
The central area had the most turnover.
I carried my tray around once.
Then chose a seat near the wall.
The seat across from me was empty.
Someone sat down.
Ate quietly.
Left soon after.
We didn't speak.
We just shared a stretch of time.
I didn't eat fast.
Didn't eat slowly either.
The taste was consistent.
Just as I was about to stand, someone stopped in front of me.
She wore a Fifth Year uniform.
Her shoulders were straighter.
The sleeve insignia looked new.
"You're Fourth Year No. 4, right?"
I nodded.
She sat down.
Naturally.
"Can I sit here?"
She was already seated.
"Sure."
She began eating.
Calm movements.
"How was training today?"
"Okay."
"What about evaluation?"
"Still preparing."
She didn't press further.
Just nodded.
When she listened, she paused for a second.
As if confirming I had finished speaking.
That focus felt unfamiliar.
"Do you usually sit here?" she asked.
"More or less."
"It's quiet."
I glanced around.
It was quieter than the central area.
"Why did you come here?" I asked.
She thought for a moment.
"Wanted a different spot."
Simple answer.
No explanation.
She told me her number.
I remembered it.
Didn't repeat it.
"Let's eat together next time."
Her tone was casual.
Like arranging something natural.
I nodded.
She left with her tray.
No obvious reaction from those around.
But I knew the information would circulate.
The afternoon evaluation began.
The room was quieter.
Each person entered the testing zone one by one.
I stood within the marked boundary.
The sensing strip lit up.
Suppression intensity set to standard.
The task was to maintain stable output.
No increase.
No decrease.
The timer started.
I focused on my breathing.
Even rhythm.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
The error stayed within range.
When it ended, the recording board displayed the result.
Still in the middle.
No change.
I exhaled.
And felt a slight emptiness.
On the way back to the dorm, the sky was dim.
Corridor lights turned on one by one.
Upperclassmen passed from the other side.
Fast steps.
Someone called out a number softly.
The other nodded, didn't stop.
That distance was clear.
At night, the dorm lights turned off on schedule.
Breathing sounds rose and fell.
I lay on the bed.
I didn't think about evaluation.
Didn't think about promotion.
I thought about the conversation at noon.
The pause she took.
The tone she used.
In the academy, active choice was rare.
Most connections were based on position and rank.
I wasn't excluded.
Just rarely chosen.
There was nothing against the rules.
Nothing particularly special.
Yet it kept my eyes open a little longer in the dark.
I began calculating tomorrow's schedule.
Morning classes.
Training.
Evaluation.
Lunch.
That time slot suddenly became specific.
Before my awareness faded, I noticed a small change.
I began to look forward to tomorrow's lunch.