I was jolted awake by a strange sound ringing loudly. It was eerie—too strange to be an alarm. I sat up, annoyed and frustrated at the idiot who thought such a wrecking tone would be a good idea for a wake-up call.
I rubbed my eyes, and once they adjusted, I noticed something was off.
The chair wasn't where I'd left it. My messy clothes was neatly folded. The tablecloth I'd used to cover the mirror was back in place, tucked with surgical precision.
**Wow. So much for privacy.**
I stood up and replaced the cloth. My eyes caught a piece of paper tacked to the board.
> **Breakfast at 7. Report to the Common Room by 8.**
**What is this, military?**
I sighed. Whatever got this over with faster.
After a quick shower, I paid some attention to what I wore. Red blazer. Blue sweatpants. Brushed my hair, tied it back.
**"Perfect for an interview for death."** I smirked
---
When I stepped into the mess hall, I almost thought I'd entered the wrong room.
People in light blue hospital gowns sat scattered across the tables pale, shaven heads, hollow stares. Some were hunched over like wilted flowers. Others just sat with their eyes open, like the light behind them had long gone out.
They quietly spooned thick, steaming porridge into their mouths. The smell was off—faintly metallic. I took a bowl from the counter, the contents warm but disturbingly **tasteless**, It didn't matter. I chugged it down and moved to the farthest corner I could find.
From the corner of my eye, I caught one boy maybe fifteen sitting still, gown hanging loose, **staring directly at me**. His head didn't tilt. He didn't blink. It was like being watched through a lens.
I got up and left.
---
It took me some time to find the Common Room. It was located down a corridor that split away from the dormitory floor its hallway dimmer than the others, flanked by two other rooms behind opaque glass. Unlike the neat rows of numbered doors before, these had no labels. Just silence.
Inside, the Common Room was bright, overlit trying too hard to look normal. A few people milled about, some in lab coats, others dressed casually. Maybe employees. Maybe… observers.
As I walked in, conversations quieted. Heads turned. Whispers sparked. Eyes lingered some curious, others uncomfortable.
A man in a white coat approached me.
"Good job, Tsukihara-kun. Right on time. That shows readiness to heal."
His smile flickered. I couldn't tell if it was meant to comfort or confess.
"I just want the program to run smoothly so I can die without complications."
"Of course. Right this way."
He led me deeper in. The air changed. A faint **sandalwood scent** floated in. It too clean, too intentional. Like they wanted to fake serenity.
We entered a smaller room made of glass walls. **It looked more like an interrogation chamber than a therapy space.**
"Tsukihara-kun, inside you'll meet with a psychologist. He'll ask you questions about your personality, emotional tendencies, and mental condition."
"Whatever."
---
I walked in. Beige walls. Rubber plant in the corner. Smelled like disinfectant and memory.
**God, how many of these rooms have I seen?**
I slumped into the chair and leaned it back, shoulder sagging against the frame.
Soon, the door opened. A man entered with typical lab smile, carefully shaved, posture too upright. A psychotherapist trying to pass off empathy as method.
"Good morning, Tsukihara. Feeling better today?"
"Cut the pleasantries. You're not here to heal me, you're here to measure me. So go on and measure."
He chuckled and took a seat.
"I _am_ doing my job, Tsukihara. So. Are you feeling better today?"
"Not exactly."
"So… worse?"
"No. Same as always."
He jotted something down.
"Now, Tsukihara-kun, I want—"
"Me to answer honestly. I know. Just ask already."
He paused, adjusted his pen.
"Very well. First question: What do you think of people?"
"What people?"
"Just… people. In general."
"Ignorant."
"Could you elaborate?"
"They live in loops. Chores, meetings, scrolling screens, shallow talks, eating. Sleeping. They never stop to ask anything real. They're terrified of silence because silence asks the real question: _Why?_"
His brows lifted slightly, but he caught himself.
"Would you classify yourself as logical or emotional?"
"Emotional."
"I told you not to lie. It makes the process harder."
"That _was_ honest."
"Your file says otherwise. You come off calculated, rational."
I leaned forward, hand to my cheek.
"If I were logical, would I be wasting my time here?"
He stiffened.
"If someone who loved you asked you to live… would you?"
"If they truly loved me, they wouldn't ask."
"Do you think the world would be better without you?"
"No. It won't even notice."
The questions dragged for another thirty minutes. Grids, scenario tests, projections. All surface-level, all performative.
But the last one broke pattern.
He clicked his pen off, then asked:
> **"If someone else's survival depended on how deeply you regret, would you regret more?"**
I stared at him.
"What the hell does that mean?"
He stood up, gathering papers.
"Never mind. You're not ready yet. Thank you for your time. Wait here for further instruction."
But as he turned away, I caught it. A flicker in his eyes it was not fear. It was... **Guilt.**
---