Part 4 — The Place Where the Experiment Begins
Around one in the afternoon, I arrived at the dorms that would be my home for the next few years.
The building stood like a block of glass and steel, perfectly symmetrical, without a single detail out of place.
The receptionist on the first floor handed me a key card engraved with my name: Sayuri Akurisawa – Room 401, along with a small manual of internal rules.
As I rode the elevator up, I skimmed the contents of the booklet.
The tone was as impersonal as a military order:
"Avoid unnecessary noise. Do not waste water or energy. Maintain cleanliness. Violations will affect the collective score."
No mention of visiting or check-out times.
Just rules. Precise ones.
It was clear that the "freedom" promised at the ceremony had limits we had yet to reach.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor with a soft ding.
Upon opening the door to my room, I was greeted by a simple, almost clinical space: a bed, a desk, a small kitchenette, and a window overlooking the campus gardens.
Eight tatami mats, if I measured it Japanese-style.
Enough to live in, but not enough to escape.
I dropped my bag on the bed and exhaled.
For the first time, the silence wasn't awkward... it was liberating.
I had spent too many years under the watchful eye of others: teachers, tutors, "watchers."
People who measured my every move.
Here, for the first time, I could decide what to do, when to do it, and with whom.
An illusion of freedom, perhaps... but still, mine.
Freedom.
In English, Freedom.
In French, Liberté.
Different words, same mirage.
I turned on the touchpad screen next to the desk.
It showed my current balance: 100,000 Kurei.
The number glowed blue, as if it were a prize.
But to me, it was just another variable in the system.
"One hundred thousand... a comfortable amount for anyone who doesn't understand how the controls work," I muttered.
In the manual, there was a final section that few would stop to read:
"Personal resources are subject to monthly evaluation. Management is not responsible for losses resulting from misuse."
So that was that.
They gave us money, food, amenities... and expected us to reveal our weaknesses in return.
I dropped the manual on the table and lay back in bed.
The white ceiling felt empty, without history.
And for the first time in years, I smiled slightly.
Not because I was happy.
But because I understood the game from the beginning.
Everyone else would think this was paradise.
I knew it was a board.
And the first move had already begun.