The vocal studio was colder than it looked.
Seiji felt it the moment he stepped inside—the way the air clung too tightly to his skin, dry and faintly metallic, as if filtered one time too many. The room was built for sound, not comfort. High ceilings. Angled walls lined with pale acoustic panels that swallowed echoes instead of softening them. The floor was polished to a dull sheen that reflected light without depth.
At the center stood a single microphone.
Not the practice kind. This one was suspended from a sleek black stand, wires trailing into the floor like veins. A red indicator light glowed faintly at its base.
Live recording, Seiji thought. No safety net.
They had been told only that it was a "vocal assessment." No ranking criteria. No explanation of how the audio would be used. Just that every performance would be recorded and evaluated.
And remembered.
The trainees filtered in quietly, shoes scuffing against the floor. Conversations stayed low, unfinished. Everyone's eyes kept drifting toward the microphone.
Cameras were everywhere—mounted in the corners, embedded in the panels, hanging from articulated arms that adjusted silently as bodies moved.
Seiji took his place near the back, posture relaxed, expression neutral. From here, he could see almost everyone. Ren stood closer to the front, arms crossed, jaw tight. His foot tapped against the floor in a sharp, irregular rhythm.
Keeps rhythm even when irritated, Seiji noted. But it speeds up when he's stressed.
Kaito lingered near the wall, fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve again and again, as if checking that it was still there. Ayato leaned against a panel, humming under his breath—too loudly, almost daring someone to comment.
Itsuki stood apart from all of them, posture loose, gaze roaming the room with open curiosity. When his eyes passed over Seiji, he smiled. Not wide. Not friendly.
Acknowledgment, Seiji thought. Not an alliance.
A producer entered, heels clicking sharply. She didn't raise her voice.
"Each of you will sing individually. One verse and one chorus. Order will be assigned." She said. A screen flickered to life on the wall behind her, names scrolling before settling.
Seiji's name appeared in the middle. Ren was near the end. Kaito was third.
Seiji watched the way Kaito's shoulders stiffened at the sight of his position. Too early. No time to acclimate.
They want to catch the nerves before they settle, Seiji thought. The producer gestured toward the microphone. "You may warm up quietly."
Quietly.
That alone was telling.
The room filled with restrained sound—half-breathed scales, murmured vowels, controlled exhales. No one wanted to be the loudest. Or the weakest.
Seiji closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself in familiar sensations. Breath. Posture. The weight of his body balanced evenly across both feet.
Acoustics feel wrong, he realized.
He tested a soft note under his breath, barely audible. The sound felt…thin. As if the room were pulling it apart. His eyes opened. The panels along the walls had shifted slightly—barely noticeable unless one was looking for it. Some were angled inward more than before.
They're dampening resonance, he thought. Flattening tone.
A stressor. Subtle, but effective.
Ren noticed it too.
"What did you do to the room?" Ren demanded suddenly, voice sharp. The producer didn't look at him. "Sing as instructed." Ren scoffed, turning away, shoulders tense. Seiji filed the reaction away.
He externalizes frustration, Seiji thought. That reads as passion—or instability. Depending on framing.
The first trainee stepped up. His voice wavered on the opening note, then steadied. The microphone captured everything—the breath, the slight scrape of nerves against sound. Seiji watched the producer's tablet, though he couldn't see what was on it. Her expression didn't change.
The second trainee did worse.
Then Kaito's name was called. Kaito flinched visibly before stepping forward. He paused at the microphone, hands clenched at his sides. Seiji's attention narrowed.
Kaito's breathing is shallow, he noted. Too fast.
The backing track began.
Kaito sang. His voice was clear—sweet, controlled—but the room seemed to swallow it. Notes that should have bloomed fell flat. His pitch wavered at the end of the verse. His eyes flicked toward the producers, then away.
He's listening to the room instead of himself, Seiji thought. He's chasing feedback that isn't there.
Kaito finished, bowing slightly before retreating, face pale. He didn't look at anyone as he returned to his spot. Ayato went next, swaggering up to the mic like it was a dare. He leaned too close, voice rough but confident, pushing volume where technique faltered.
The room didn't reward him either.
The producer's tablet remained inscrutable.
One by one, the trainees sang.
Some adapted quickly—adjusting projection, changing placement. Others fought the room, pushing harder, voices cracking under pressure.
Seiji watched it all.
Stress reveals defaults, he thought. Not talent. Habit.
His name was called. He stepped forward without hesitation. The microphone was cold beneath his fingers as he adjusted it slightly—just enough to feel grounded, not enough to look deliberate.
He inhaled.
Sing through the room, not into it, he reminded himself.
The first note left his throat clean, controlled. He didn't chase volume. Instead, he focused on clarity—letting the sound sit precisely where the room couldn't eat it. The acoustics still dulled him, but less.
He let a trace of strain color the chorus—not enough to lose control, just enough to feel human.
Let them hear effort, he thought. Not panic.
When he finished, the silence felt heavier than applause. He bowed and stepped back. As he passed Ren, he caught the other boy watching him, eyes narrowed—not with anger, but calculation.
Comparison already, Seiji thought. Ren's turn came soon after. He approached the mic like an opponent.
His voice was powerful, technically strong—but the room punished excess. High notes spread too wide, losing focus. His jaw tightened mid-phrase.
He pushed harder.
The strain showed.
When he finished, he stood there a beat too long, as if waiting for something. Then he turned sharply and walked away. During the break that followed, the room buzzed with subdued tension. No one spoke loudly. Whispers cut off when producers passed nearby.
Seiji found Ren in a corner, pacing.
Ren noticed him immediately.
"That room's sabotaged. You felt it." Ren said under his breath. "Yes." Seiji said simply. Ren scoffed. "So why didn't you say anything?"
Seiji met his gaze. "Would it change anything?" Ren hesitated. "No." He admitted. "Then adjust." Seiji said. Ren's eyes flicked over Seiji's face, searching for something. "You adjusted."
It wasn't a question. Seiji didn't deny it. "You rely on projection. The room punishes that." He said quietly. Ren bristled. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think you know it. And you ignore it when you're angry." Seiji said.
The words landed harder than Seiji expected.
Ren's jaw flexed. For a moment, Seiji thought he might lash out. Instead, Ren laughed sharply. "You sound like a producer." Seiji felt something twist—unpleasant, but useful.
"I'm not. I'm competing." He said. Ren studied him again, slower this time. "Why help me?" Ren asked. Seiji answered honestly. "If you break now, it's boring." Ren snorted despite himself.
"Don't get cocky. I'll remember this." He said. "So will they." Seiji thought, but didn't say. Across the room, Kaito sat alone, staring at his hands.
Seiji's attention drifted back to him.
Kaito internalizes failure, he thought. He'll carry this longer than the rest.
After the final performance, they were ushered into a smaller room—an evaluation space. Chairs faced a screen that flickered to life.
No rankings yet.
Instead, waveforms appeared. Clips replayed. Short segments of their voices, isolated, stripped of context. Comments scrolled alongside them. No usernames. No timestamps.
> Too thin.
> Emotional but unstable.
> Strong tone. Lacks impact.
> I like him. He sounds sincere.
> Why is he trying so hard?
The comments didn't align cleanly with the performances.
Kaito's clip played.
His voice sounded better here than it had in the room—cleaner, warmer. The comments were brutal anyway.
> Pretty voice, no presence.
> He looks scared.
> He shouldn't be the center.
Kaito's breath hitched audibly. Seiji watched his hands curl into fists.
Perception overrides reality, Seiji thought. Even when reality improves.
Ren's clip followed.
> Powerful but messy.
> He's angry.
> Hot when he's mad.
> Needs control.
Ren leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
Seiji's clip appeared.
> Clean.
> Safe.
> He feels…reliable.
> I'd watch him again.
No extremes. No hate. No obsession.
Middle ground, Seiji thought. For now.
The screen went dark. "Rankings will be announced later. You may return to practice." The producer said. As they stood, Kaito swayed slightly. Seiji reached out instinctively, steadying him by the elbow.
Kaito froze at the contact, then relaxed.
"Thanks." He murmured. Seiji released him immediately. Across the room, Ren watched the interaction, eyes sharp.
Everything is observed, Seiji reminded himself. Even reflex.
Back in the practice room, voices filled the space again—this time with tension layered over fatigue. Ren practiced harder than necessary, voice cutting through the air.
Kaito sat nearby, silent.
Seiji positioned himself between them without appearing to. He sang softly, repeating the same phrase, adjusting micro-details.
Skill is only part of this, he thought. The rest is how it's framed.
When the day finally ended, exhaustion sat heavy in his bones. But beneath it, something else had taken root. Understanding. This wasn't about singing best. It was about being read correctly—or at least usefully.
As the lights dimmed and the cameras continued their quiet watch, Seiji lay awake longer than usual.
The room replayed sounds in his head. Voices. Comments. Breaths caught and released.
Skill versus perception, he thought. And perception always wins.
Somewhere between that thought and sleep, he realized something else—something colder. He wasn't afraid of the next challenge. He was curious how it could be used.