The bus doors folded open with a sound like a held breath finally released.
Seiji stepped down onto polished concrete, the soles of his sneakers making a faint, inadequate noise against the vastness of the space. The arrival bay stretched wider than it needed to be—too clean, too white, too deliberately empty.
Overhead, lights ran in perfect lines, not warm enough to be welcoming, not harsh enough to accuse.
They simply existed, bright and unblinking.
The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and ozone.
He rolled his shoulders once, the strap of his duffel biting into muscle. Eighteen years of training had taught him how to stand when watched. Spine straight, chin neutral, eyes forward but not challenging.
A posture that said capable without saying arrogant. He slipped into it automatically, then noticed the glass.
Not windows. Walls.
One entire side of the bay was transparent, stretching from floor to ceiling. Beyond it lay another corridor, darker, the reflections overlapping so that Seiji could see himself layered over shadowy shapes behind the glass.
He couldn't tell where the reflection ended, and the other side began. A camera lens slid forward from the ceiling with a soft mechanical click.
Seiji stilled.
So it starts already.
"Welcome." A voice said.
It came from everywhere and nowhere, amplified but calm, gender-neutral in a way that felt intentional. Not a host, not quite an announcer. A system voice.
"Please proceed forward. Luggage will be collected."
Staff appeared without ceremony—black uniforms, no visible logos, movements efficient and silent. One of them reached for Seiji's duffel. There was a fraction of a second where instinct flared, an irrational urge to hold onto it, but he let go.
The bag vanished into a cart with the others.
Around him, the rest of the trainees gathered in a loose, uncertain cluster. Twenty? Twenty-four? Seiji counted automatically, then stopped. Numbers could change.
Faces flickered in his peripheral vision—some tense, some bright with forced excitement, others carefully blank. Everyone had practiced for this moment. Everyone knew how to smile when it mattered.
The ceiling camera rotated, tracking. Seiji became aware of his breathing.
Don't look up too often, he thought. That reads as nervous.
He adjusted his stance instead, distributing his weight evenly, letting his gaze drift forward with measured curiosity. If this place were watching, then it would see what he chose to give it.
They were guided through sliding doors into the main corridor.
The facility unfolded like a diagram rendered in white and steel. Long hallways intersected at precise angles, floors gleaming to the point of reflection. There were no windows to the outside. If there was a sky beyond these walls, it was irrelevant.
Their footsteps echoed in a way that felt intentional, as if silence itself had been engineered to make sound conspicuous.
Seiji's eyes traced everything without lingering: the seam where wall met floor, the subtle color variations that distinguished one corridor from another, the way ceiling panels occasionally broke pattern to accommodate cameras. No shadows deep enough to hide in.
He felt a familiar tightening in his chest—not fear exactly, but alertness. The sensation of stepping onto a stage before the music started.
Everything is controlled.
A boy a few steps ahead, laughed too loudly at something no one had said. The sound bounced off the walls, awkward and alone. No one joined in. Seiji glanced sideways.
The boy was tall, blond, his smile dazzling in a practiced way that suggested long familiarity with mirrors. He caught Seiji looking and flashed another grin, this one more contained.
"Itsuki. Nice to finally meet you." He said, extending a hand without breaking stride. Seiji shook it. The grip was confident, calibrated. "Seiji. You seem…comfortable." He replied. "If I look comfortable, maybe I'll start to feel that way." Itsuki laughed softly.
It was said lightly, but Seiji filed it away. A joke that doubled as a tactic.
Ahead, another trainee walked with sharp, restless energy, shoulders tense as if daring the space to challenge him. His hair was dark, his movements precise but aggressive, like a dancer marking choreography even while walking.
He glanced back, eyes flicking over the group, pausing on Seiji for half a second longer than necessary.
There was no smile.
Ren Saito, Seiji thought. He'd seen the pre-arrival profiles, the carefully edited clips everyone pretended not to study obsessively. Ren had stood out even then—too intense to ignore. Ren looked away first.
Behind them, someone muttered under his breath, clearly unconcerned with being overheard. "This place is creepy as hell."
Ayato Kurose. Earrings glinted against his neck, and there was something deliberately uncontained about the way he moved, as if he refused to shrink himself to fit the corridor's rigid geometry. A staff member's gaze slid toward him. Ayato noticed and smirked.
Already pushing, Seiji noted. Or already incapable of stopping.
They were ushered into an auditorium.
It was vast, tiered seating curving around a central stage that looked too pristine to have ever been used. The floor was a matte black that swallowed light instead of reflecting it, creating the illusion of depth. Above, a grid of spotlights hung dormant, like a promise or a threat.
Names appeared on screens embedded into the backs of the seats—each seat assigned, unambiguous.
Seiji found his place near the middle. Not front, not back. He sat, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
The seat was colder than expected. As the last trainee took his place, the lights dimmed slightly—not enough to obscure faces, just enough to sharpen contrast. The stage brightened.
A single figure walked out. Not a producer, Seiji realized. No visible microphone, no clipboard. Just a tailored suit and an expression of calm interest.
"Good afternoon. Congratulations on making it this far." The man said. His voice carried easily. No applause followed. The trainees sat frozen, waiting for a cue that didn't come. "That silence is appropriate. You are not here to celebrate. You are here to be evaluated." The man continued, smiling faintly,
Seiji felt the words settle into him, heavy and deliberate.
"You've all trained for years. You've been told that talent matters. That effort matters. That perseverance will be rewarded." The man went on. He paused, letting the idea hover.
"This program will test those beliefs."
The screens behind him shifted, displaying a minimalist logo—sharp lines, abstract, impossible to interpret emotionally.
"For the duration of your stay, this facility will be your world. Outside contact is suspended. Communication is regulated. Every action, on and off stage, is subject to review." The man said A ripple of tension moved through the seats. Seiji's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
No outside contact, he thought. So even silence is visible.
"Rankings will be updated weekly. They are absolute. You will not be given full explanations. Questions regarding evaluation criteria will not be entertained." The man continued. Someone near the front inhaled sharply.
"You may not leave voluntarily. Should you attempt to do so, all future access to the industry will be forfeited." The man said calmly.
The word all echoed in Seiji's mind.
"This is not a threat. It is simply the structure." The man added, almost kindly. The lights brightened again. "Your first orientation will begin shortly. Welcome to RANKED." The man concluded.
He exited the stage without another word.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the lights shifted, brighter, colder, and staff appeared along the aisles, guiding them up in orderly lines. The silence felt heavier now, loaded with meaning.
As Seiji stood, he became acutely aware of the cameras again. Not just overhead—embedded in walls, corners, even the edges of the stage.
They don't miss anything, he thought. They just choose what to care about.
—
The dormitories were identical.
Seiji knew this because he walked past twelve doors before reaching his own, and there had been no variation. Same color, same handle, same unmarked surface. Inside, the room was split neatly down the middle—two beds, two desks, two lockers. The symmetry was almost aggressive.
He set his bag down on the left bed without really thinking about it.
His roommate arrived moments later.
Takumi Ono moved quietly, glasses catching the overhead light. He paused in the doorway, scanning the room with a neutral expression that didn't quite hide the calculation beneath it. "Left or right?" Takumi asked. Seiji gestured to the opposite side. "I took left. Is that okay?"
"That's fine." Takumi nodded.
They unpacked in silence for a while, the only sounds the soft rustle of fabric and the faint hum of ventilation. Seiji could feel the presence of the camera even here—a small black dome in the corner of the ceiling, unobtrusive and unmistakable.
"So, what do you think?" Takumi said eventually, not looking up. Seiji considered his answer carefully. "I think that it's bigger than it needs to be." He said.
"That's one way to put it." Takumi smiled faintly.
There was an understanding there, unspoken. Not comfort, exactly, but recognition. A chime sounded through the room. "Orientation continues in fifteen minutes. Please proceed to the dining hall." The system voice announced. They left together, falling into step without comment.
—
The dining hall was cavernous, with long tables arranged in parallel lines and seats already assigned. Food waited on trays—nutritionally balanced, aesthetically bland. Nothing that invited indulgence.
Seiji sat across from Kaito Nishimura, who smiled nervously and bowed his head slightly before eating.
"This is…a lot." Kaito said, voice barely above a whisper. "It is." Seiji nodded. Kaito hesitated, then smiled again, brighter this time, as if trying to convince himself. "But we're here, right? That means something."
Seiji watched the way Kaito's fingers trembled as he picked up his chopsticks.
It means we were chosen, he thought. For reasons we don't know.
Across the room, Ayato laughed loudly, leaning back in his chair despite a staff member's watchful gaze. Ren ate quickly, efficiently, eyes scanning the room between bites. Itsuki chatted with two others, his expression animated, hands moving as he spoke.
Everyone was performing already. Even the ones pretending not to.
Seiji ate slowly, methodically. He kept his posture relaxed, his expression neutral. He didn't rush. He didn't linger.
Who is strongest, he thought, eyes flicking from face to face. And who is dangerous?
The distinction felt important.
—
Orientation blurred into a series of controlled exposures.
Practice rooms with mirrored walls that reflected endlessly, the glass subtly tinted so that Seiji couldn't tell which surfaces were transparent and which were not. Interview rooms with harsh lighting and chairs bolted to the floor. Corridors that looped back on themselves in disorienting ways.
At every turn, cameras.
During a brief lull, as they waited outside a studio, Ren stepped closer. "You dance well." Ren said, tone flat. Seiji met his gaze. "So do you." Ren's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Don't get in my way."
There it was. Clean. Direct.
Seiji inclined his head slightly. "I'll do my best."
Ren snorted and stepped away. The exchange lasted less than ten seconds. Seiji felt the echo of it linger anyway.
He's not wrong, Seiji thought. We will get in each other's way.
—
By the time night fell—if it could be called night without windows—Seiji's body ached with the familiar fatigue of training layered with something heavier. Not physical exhaustion, but pressure. The constant awareness of being seen.
In the dorm room, the lights dimmed automatically at a set hour. Takumi lay on his bed, scrolling through a tablet provided by the facility. Seiji stared at the ceiling.
The camera's red indicator glowed softly.
Leaving is impossible, Seiji realized fully for the first time. Not as a rule stated aloud, but as a fact embedded into the walls, the routines, the way everyone had already begun to adjust.
He thought of the man on stage. This is not a threat. It is simply the structure.
Seiji closed his eyes. Somewhere in the facility, machinery hummed, steady and indifferent. Tomorrow, evaluations will begin. Seiji breathed in, slow and controlled, and let the silence settle around him.
He did not smile.
He did not frown.
He lay very still, already learning how not to disappear.