The studio lights turned on all at once.
Not gradually. Not mercifully.
White flooded the room, flattening depth and shadow until the mirrored walls reflected a version of reality that felt overexposed, almost unreal. The practice room was enormous—larger than any Seiji had trained in before—its ceiling high enough that the lights felt distant, unreachable, like a false sky.
The floor was pristine, pale wood marked with faint grid lines. Every scuff, every misstep, would show.
Seiji stood in the third row, slightly left of center. Not by accident.
Visibility without a spotlight, he thought. Easy to observe. Harder to blame.
Cameras ringed the room at different heights. Some were obvious—black domes embedded in the corners, lenses glinting. Others were disguised as motion sensors or tucked into lighting rigs. Seiji didn't try to catalog them all. That way lies paranoia without utility.
Instead, he focused on the people.
Twenty-three trainees stood in loose formation, stretching quietly or standing too still. The air smelled faintly of polish and something metallic, like overheated electronics. No music yet. No instructions beyond the single message that had appeared on their tablets that morning:
**ORIENTATION DRILL — GROUP PERFORMANCE EVALUATION**
No duration listed. No difficulty rating.
Seiji rolled his neck once, then let his arms fall naturally at his sides. He felt awake—too awake. His body recognized this state. Not adrenaline, exactly, but readiness sharpened by uncertainty.
At the front of the room, a line of producers sat behind a long desk. No nameplates. Their expressions were neutral, attentive in a way that felt less human than procedural. Tablets rested in front of them, screens dark for now.
One of them stood.
"This will be your first group challenge. You will be taught choreography. You will memorize it. You will perform it." She said. Her voice was calm, almost gentle. She paused.
"We will not tell you how much time you have."
A ripple of unease moved through the room.
Seiji didn't shift his weight. He watched instead—how shoulders tightened, how eyes flicked to the mirrors, to the producers, to each other. Anxiety traveled faster than sound.
"The choreography will be shown once. After that, you will practice independently. When we call for the performance, you will perform immediately." The producer continued.
A beat.
"Mistakes will be noted."
That was all. She sat. Music exploded into the room.
It was sharp and fast, the kind of track designed to overwhelm on first listen—dense beats, abrupt transitions, accents that punished hesitation. The choreographer stepped forward without an introduction and began to move.
Seiji's focus narrowed.
He tracked angles, timing, and weight shifts. Not just the steps, but the logic behind them—the way one movement flowed into the next, where the center of gravity shifted, which accents were meant to draw the eye.
He mirrored the motions in his head, building a skeletal version of the dance before fleshing it out with detail. Years of training kicked in automatically. He didn't panic. Panic wasted memory.
Around him, bodies scrambled to keep up.
Ayato missed a transition and laughed under his breath, shaking it off with exaggerated swagger. Ren attacked the choreography aggressively, muscles tense, movements sharp but slightly ahead of the beat. Itsuki smiled as he danced, eyes flicking toward the cameras even as his feet struggled to land cleanly.
Kaito—
Seiji noticed him falter halfway through. Not dramatically. Just enough. Kaito's steps lagged a half-count behind, his shoulders stiffening as he tried to recover. His eyes darted to the mirror, then away, like looking too long might confirm his fear.
He's losing it, Seiji thought. Not because it's hard. Because he thinks it's hard.
The choreography ended. Silence crashed down harder than the music had. "Practice." The producer said. The music did not resume.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the room fractured into motion—small groups forming, individuals running through steps alone, some trainees rushing to the mirrors, others backing away from them as if reflection itself were a threat.
Seiji stayed where he was.
He ran the choreography once in his head, slow and precise, then again at tempo. His body followed naturally, the movements clean but not showy. He didn't add flair. This wasn't the time.
They're watching how we practice, he reminded himself. Not just how we perform.
To his right, Kaito stood frozen, hands clenched at his sides. His lips moved soundlessly as if counting, but his feet didn't move.
Seiji took one step closer—not close enough to draw attention, not far enough to ignore. "Second eight-count. The turn lands on the off-beat, not the downbeat." Seiji said quietly, eyes still forward. Kaito startled, then nodded quickly. "R-right."
He tried again. Still off.
Seiji adjusted his own position slightly, angling his body so Kaito could catch his peripheral movements without it looking like instruction. He exaggerated the timing just enough to be legible.
Kaito followed. It worked.
Relief flickered across Kaito's face, fleeting but unmistakable. He didn't look at Seiji this time. He focused on the mirror, on his feet, on surviving the next thirty seconds. Seiji felt something tighten in his chest.
Don't overdo it, he warned himself. Help once. Not more.
Across the room, Ren swore under his breath as he collided with another trainee. "Watch it." Ren snapped. "Sorry." The other boy mumbled, shrinking back. Ren ran the sequence again, harder this time, like force could compensate for precision. Sweat darkened his shirt. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle jumped.
The producers watched without comment.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time felt elastic, stretched thin by anticipation.
A bell chimed.
"Positions." The system voice said.
Seiji's heart rate spiked—not from fear, but from the suddenness of it. Practice cut short mid-motion, bodies jerking to a stop like marionettes with severed strings. They scrambled into formation.
The music started immediately.
Seiji danced.
His body moved on instinct, muscle memory filling in gaps his conscious mind hadn't had time to process. He didn't overthink. He let the choreography exist through him, clean lines, controlled energy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kaito hesitate again—but only for a fraction of a second this time. He recovered. It wasn't perfect, but it was passable.
Ren hit everything with force, but his timing slipped on the final transition. Ayato added an unnecessary flourish that broke synchronization. Itsuki missed a turn but smiled through it, projecting confidence like armor.
The music cut.
Silence.
The producers didn't react. They tapped their tablets. Notes were made. Data recorded. Seiji stood still, breathing evenly. He kept his expression neutral—not hopeful, not resigned.
It's done, he thought. Now comes the interpretation.
"Thank you. Please wait." The producer said.
They waited. Ten minutes passed in silence. No one spoke. No one sat. The mirrors reflected a room full of young men trapped between effort and outcome. Seiji's legs began to ache. He welcomed the sensation. Pain was concrete. Pain could be measured.
Finally, the screens along the far wall flickered to life.
Names appeared. Ranked.
A low murmur rippled through the group. Seiji quickly scanned the list.
Top tier: familiar names. Ren. Itsuki. A few others he recognized from pre-arrival buzz.
Middle: most of them.
Lower—
Kaito's name hovered near the bottom.
Seiji felt his stomach drop.
He wasn't that bad, Seiji thought. Not compared to—
He stopped himself.
Compared to what? To whom? By whose metric?
His own name sat solidly in the upper-middle. Not exceptional. Not endangered. Safe. The realization brought no relief. Kaito stared at the screen, his face pale. His hands trembled openly now, no longer controlled. "I—" Kaito started, then stopped. He swallowed hard. "I practiced. I did…"
No one responded.
Ren scoffed quietly from somewhere behind them.
"Guess talent only gets you so far, huh." Ayato laughed, sharp and humorless. Kaito flinched as if struck. Seiji said nothing. He felt eyes on him—not accusing, not approving. Assessing.
This isn't about the dance, he realized. It's about the reaction.
The producer stood again. "These rankings are provisional. They reflect our current assessment." She said. She smiled faintly.
"They will change."
The words should have been reassuring. They weren't.
—
Later, in the locker room, the atmosphere was brittle.
Metal lockers lined the walls, identical and unmarked. The air was damp with sweat and something sharper—fear, maybe, or humiliation. No music played. No one tried to lighten the mood.
Kaito sat on a bench, head in his hands.
Seiji hesitated, then sat beside him, leaving a careful distance.
"You didn't fail. You froze. That's different." Seiji said quietly. Kaito looked up, eyes glassy. "Is it?" Seiji didn't answer immediately. He thought of the rankings. Of how quickly they'd appeared. Of how little explanation had been given.
"I don't think they were only watching the steps." Seiji said instead.
Kaito frowned, confused. "They were watching us. How we react. How we recover." Seiji continued. Kaito's shoulders slumped. "Then I'm done."
"No." Seiji said, sharper than he intended. Kaito blinked. Seiji exhaled slowly, recalibrating. "You're not done. You're just…visible now." The word hung between them. Kaito nodded slowly, though it was clear he didn't fully understand. He wiped his face with the heel of his hand.
"Thank you. For earlier." He murmured. Seiji inclined his head. "It was nothing." It wasn't true. Across the room, Ren slammed his locker shut, the sound echoing. He glanced at Seiji, eyes narrowing slightly, then looked away.
He noticed, Seiji thought. Of course he did. That night, lying in his bed, the events replayed themselves with uncomfortable clarity. The choreography. The panic. The rankings. Patterns began to form—not fully, not consciously, but enough to unsettle him.
Those who struggled openly were punished. Those who struggled quietly…it was unclear.
Those who performed with confidence, even imperfectly, were rewarded. Seiji stared at the ceiling camera's faint red glow.
This place doesn't measure skill, he thought. It measures response.
The realization didn't feel like insight.
It felt like a warning.
Tomorrow, there will be another drill. Another evaluation. Another chance to be seen. Seiji closed his eyes, body still humming with residual tension. Somewhere down the hall, someone cried softly, the sound quickly swallowed by the facility's perfect insulation.
Seiji listened until it stopped.
Then he slept, already adjusting, already learning which parts of himself were safe to show—and which were better kept invisible.