The stage was smaller than Seiji expected.
Not physically—if anything, it was expansive, a wide black platform framed by vertical light panels that reached up toward the ceiling like ribs. But emotionally, it felt compressed. Contained. Every step taken on it seemed to echo back immediately, magnified and judged before it could settle into memory.
This was the first ranking test.
They hadn't called it that.
The notification on their tablets that morning had read: **STAGE PRESENCE EXERCISE — INDIVIDUAL**. No mention of points. No mention of ranking. But the trainees had learned quickly to read what wasn't written.
Seiji stood in the wings, waiting for his turn.
The air backstage was cool, almost cold, conditioned to preserve energy, to keep bodies sharp. Staff moved quietly around them, adjusting microphones, checking in-ear monitors, tapping on tablets. No one made eye contact longer than necessary.
Ren stood a few feet away.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted slightly back as if listening to something only he could hear. His jaw was set, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt from his earlier run-through, but his posture was relaxed—too relaxed.
He's ready, Seiji thought. Or he wants them to think he is.
The light above the stage shifted. A name appeared briefly on the screen overhead.
REN SAITO.
Ren pushed off the wall and walked forward without looking back. Seiji watched him go.
Ren's performance was powerful. That much was undeniable.
The exercise was simple in structure: thirty seconds of music, minimal choreography, no vocals. Just movement, expression, presence. The kind of test that exposed instinct more than training.
Ren filled the space aggressively. His movements were sharp, expansive, cutting through the air with precision. He used the full width of the stage, eyes blazing, body coiled like a spring. Every gesture demanded attention.
The lights seemed to respond to him, catching the angles of his face, the tension in his muscles. If Seiji hadn't known better, he might have thought the stage belonged to Ren already.
The music cut. Ren held his final pose for a beat too long.
Then he straightened and walked off, breathing hard, eyes shining with something that bordered on triumph.
The producers whispered among themselves.
Seiji's tablet vibrated.
**"High intensity. Strong projection."**
No qualifiers. No critique.
Ren glanced down at his own screen as he passed Seiji. A corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. A challenge. Seiji didn't react.
Intensity reads easily, he thought. So does aggression.
His name appeared on the screen.
SEIJI TAKAHASHI.
He stepped onto the stage.
The lights felt different from here—brighter, more exposed. The darkness beyond the panels swallowed depth, leaving only the immediate space visible. He couldn't see the producers clearly, just the outline of their bodies behind the desk.
He took his position at center stage. The music started.
Seiji didn't rush.
Where Ren had attacked the space, Seiji let it come to him. His movements were controlled, economical. He didn't travel far. He let stillness do some of the work, letting tension build in the pauses between motion.
He lifted his gaze slowly, deliberately, meeting the invisible eye of the camera. Not challenging. Not pleading.
Present.
He thought of the comments from free practice. Be careful not to disappear.
So he didn't.
He let emotion flicker across his face—something restrained, something unreadable enough to invite projection. His body followed the rhythm with precision, but he allowed small imperfections, moments where it seemed like he was holding back, choosing restraint over excess.
Visibility over volume, he thought. Make them lean in.
The thirty seconds stretched, then ended abruptly. Seiji froze in place, breath steady, heart hammering in his chest. Silence. Then the lights dimmed. He walked offstage. Ren watched him from the wings, eyes sharp. The tablets vibrated.
Seiji didn't check immediately. He focused on unclipping his microphone, on grounding himself in the mundane sensation of the wire against his skin.
When he finally looked, the comment was brief.
**"Compelling restraint. Camera-aware."**
His pulse jumped.
Camera-aware.
He locked the screen. The trainees were herded back into the auditorium to wait. The seats felt harder than before, the air heavier with anticipation. No one spoke. Even Ayato was quiet, leg bouncing restlessly. The screen flickered on.
Names appeared.
Ranked.
Seiji's eyes went straight to the top.
1. Seiji Takahashi
2. Ren Saito
The gap between their names felt infinitesimal. A hair's breadth. A technicality. Ren's reaction was immediate—and subtle. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw clenched. His gaze slid sideways, sharp and assessing, landing on Seiji for a fraction of a second before snapping back to the screen.
Seiji felt a rush of satisfaction—quick, bright, dangerous.
I beat him, he thought. Barely.
The feeling was followed almost immediately by something colder.
He won't forget this.
The producer stood. "These results reflect today's evaluation only. They are subject to change." She said. Her eyes flicked briefly to Seiji. Then to Ren. "You will all continue training."
Dismissed.
—
The corridor outside the auditorium buzzed with low murmurs as the trainees dispersed. Some looked relieved. Others looked stunned. A few looked hollow.
Ren didn't speak to Seiji.
He didn't need to.
That night, during private practice hours, Seiji found him in Studio B. The room was dimmer than the others, lights lowered to a cool blue-white. The mirrors reflected endless versions of Ren, all moving in sync as he drilled the same sequence over and over again.
His movements were even sharper now. More precise. Less wasted energy.
Seiji leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded loosely. He didn't announce himself.
Ren noticed anyway.
"You're blocking the camera." Ren said without turning around. Seiji shifted half a step. Ren stopped dancing. He turned, eyes blazing. "You think you're clever. Playing it quiet. Letting them fill in the blanks." Ren said. Seiji met his gaze calmly. "I just did the exercise."
Ren laughed once, harshly. "Bullshit."
He stepped closer, closing the distance deliberately. Not enough to touch, but enough to be felt. The air between them tightened.
"You're not better than me." Ren said quietly.
Seiji didn't answer immediately. He studied Ren's face—the tension around his eyes, the way his hands curled slightly at his sides.
This matters to him, Seiji realized. More than he wants it to.
"I didn't say I was." Seiji replied.
Ren's eyes flicked to Seiji's mouth. Then back up. "Then why do you look so calm?" Ren demanded. Seiji considered that. "Because this wasn't about being better. It was about being seen." He said, finally.
The words hung between them.
Ren stared at him, breathing hard.
For a moment, something unreadable passed through his expression. Anger, yes—but also curiosity. Calculation.
"You think you've figured it out." Ren said. "I think that if they wanted the best dancer, they wouldn't need all this." Seiji replied carefully. "You're annoying." Ren snorted, stepping back. He turned away, resuming his practice with renewed intensity.
Seiji watched for a few seconds longer, then left.
As he walked down the corridor, he felt the aftershocks of the encounter ripple through him. The thrill of the win. The unease of Ren's attention.
Rivalry, he thought. Not personal. Strategic.
He replayed the stage in his mind—the lights, the camera, the way restraint had been rewarded over force.
Skill matters, he acknowledged. But visibility decides.
The thought lodged itself deep, uncomfortable and undeniable. Later, lying in his bed, Seiji stared at the ceiling camera, its red light steady and unblinking. He thought of Ren's intensity. Of his own calculated calm.
Of how easily satisfaction had bloomed when the ranking appeared.
This is how it starts, he thought distantly. Not with cruelty. With small adjustments.
He closed his eyes. Tomorrow, the rivalry would continue. Quietly. Strategically. And next time, Seiji knew, he wouldn't just aim to win. He would aim to be impossible to ignore.