The opening ceremony was canceled.
The notice was posted on the wall.
A sheet of white paper, pressed perfectly flat. All four corners secured—no curling, not even slightly. The black text was neatly arranged, horizontal and vertical lines aligned with precision. No signs of revision. Under the lights, the surface reflected a faint, cold sheen.
Voices in the corridor were subdued.
Some paused to glance at it, then quickly looked away.
Class 6-3 was on the sixth floor.
The stairwell echoed clearly.
Footsteps struck the steps, sound rebounding off concrete walls, layering upward floor by floor. The metal handrail was cold. When touched, it carried a distinct chill into the palm. Air flowed slowly upward from below, carrying traces of lingering morning dampness.
At the turn of the corner, angled light entered through the window.
It struck the edges of the steps, cutting out sharp shadows.
The seventh grade was on the same floor.
The sixth-floor corridor was wider.
The ceiling higher than below. Light spread evenly, without blind spots. The floor had been waxed; footsteps sounded heavier than on ordinary tile. The air was cool, like a space kept at constant temperature year-round.
The door to Class 6-3 was half open.
Inside, the light was even. Outside wind was minimal; the curtains moved slightly.
There was a new student.
Number 33.
He sat in the back row.
Near the window.
His back rested against the chair, aligned with his spine. Straight posture. Shoulders level.
Head lowered.
His gaze rested on the edge of the desk.
Too quiet.
Like the body was present, but the mind wasn't participating.
He didn't flip through books. Didn't arrange stationery. His hands rested on the desk, fingertips naturally lowered.
The air around him felt slightly stagnant.
77 sat beside Ros.
As he took his seat, the chairs lightly touched.
The wooden edges made a faint sound.
He tilted his head slightly, glanced at Number 33.
A faint chill ran along his spine.
Not cold, exactly.
More like the density of the air had suddenly increased.
Sunlight slanted in through the side window, stopping at the front edge of the desk. Number 33's face remained in shadow.
"This guy… why does he feel so unsettling?"
The voice was low.
Breath brushed against the throat as it left.
Ros raised a finger.
Her fingertip near her lips.
"Shh. That's rude."
Her voice was light, even.
Number 33 didn't look up.
Pages turned intermittently.
Someone dragged a chair.
Chalk scraped against the board.
The air remained steady.
—
Monday afternoon.
Before ability training.
The playground surface was bleached pale under the sun. The air carried faint heat.
One-thousand-meter run.
The starting signal dropped.
Shoes struck the ground in unison.
Vibration spread along the track.
In the first two hundred meters, breathing stayed even.
By three hundred, gaps began to form.
Ros was first.
Her stride steady.
Footfalls light.
Shoulders relaxed.
Arm swing precise.
Breathing even.
No sweat.
Sunlight fell across her profile.
33 was second.
Sweat on his forehead.
Droplets slid down from his temples.
No panting.
Breathing flat.
His landing rhythm was extremely regular.
The sound of his shoes contacting the track remained consistent.
77 was third.
His chest rose and fell noticeably.
Breathing heavier.
Throat slightly dry.
Sweat ran down along his temples to his jaw.
In the last two hundred meters, heat built in his soles.
The sound of his breathing overtook the wind.
"Tch… are they all monsters?"
His voice carried breath.
After crossing the line, his throat tightened.
—
They entered the lab building.
The door slid open automatically.
The air turned cold instantly.
Sweat clung to the skin, cooling at once.
A chill ran down his back.
Corridor echoes were suppressed.
Walls absorbed sound.
Footsteps shortened.
The light was whiter than outside.
They entered the ability training field.
The space was wide.
Gray-white ground, non-reflective.
Dry air.
Temperature lower than outdoors.
Training began.
The crowd spread out.
Movements unfolded.
Breathing echoed through the space.
Then—
a crisp finger snap.
Not loud.
But extremely clear.
Like metal lightly struck.
A student on the verge of losing control trembled.
Shoulders stiffened.
Arms froze mid-air.
Knees hit the ground first.
The body tilted sideways.
The sound of impact was dull.
Those nearby stopped moving.
The air froze briefly.
Whispers spread.
The supervisor stood behind the observation window.
Glass separated the space.
He stood straight.
Fingers hanging at his sides.
No movement.
As if nothing had happened.
The air returned to normal.
Training resumed.
77's gaze passed over Number 33.
On that quiet face, for a brief instant—
satisfaction surfaced.
The corner of his mouth lifted, ever so slightly.
A tiny arc.
But unmistakable.
77 swallowed.
Something in his chest pressed down.
He said nothing.
Only watched.
Inside his mind, the condition structure began to turn slowly.
If—
He stopped the thought.
His breathing stabilized.
—
There was a new female recovery-type ability user in the infirmary.
Her white coat was spotless.
Sleeves neatly aligned.
Light fell across her shoulders.
Students called her an angel in white.
When she smiled, the curve of her lips was gentle.
Her voice was soft.
Her palm pressed against wounds.
Her temperature steady.
Light fell across the back of her hand.
Injuries healed quickly.
Male students lined up outside the door.
Some whispered among themselves.
Female students sat inside.
The atmosphere was relaxed.
The air carried the scent of disinfectant.
Injuries among sixth graders began to increase.
Most were discovered after class.
For example—
a bleeding arm.
Only revealed when sleeves were rolled up.
The wounds weren't large.
But not small either.
Edges clean.
Once inside the infirmary, they healed quickly.
Skin restored smooth.
No scars left.
Footsteps moved back and forth in the corridor.
The sixth floor remained brightly lit.
Inside the classroom, Number 33 still sat in the back row.
Back straight.
Head lowered.
Quiet.
As if absent.
77 sat in the front row.
Breathing steady.
His fingertip tapped lightly on the desk.
A faint sound.
The air did not change.
He looked up.
Outside the window, light was flat.
From the corridor, distant footsteps echoed.
The sixth floor remained quiet.
The rhythm did not change.