The city loved mornings like this.
Clear skies. Digital billboards looping welcome messages. Trains running on time. Students in pressed uniforms flowing toward the academy gates like this was the beginning of something bright.
Aren Kurose walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes up, posture calm. He had practiced this expression—neutral, capable, unremarkable. The kind of face that didn't attract attention. The kind the system liked.
The Ability Development Academy rose ahead of him, all glass and steel, its emblem projected above the entrance: a stylized eye encircled by light.
See. Protect. Serve.
Aren read it once, then looked away.
His ability had awakened three months ago during a routine aptitude screening. No pain. No explosion. Just a sudden, unsettling clarity—as if the world had sharpened a fraction too much. The officials called it Perceptive Alignment. They smiled, took notes, and handed him a pamphlet.
Late awakening. Normal variation. Nothing to worry about.
Aren believed them. Systems existed for a reason.
Inside, the auditorium buzzed with voices. Hundreds of students filled the seats, excitement crackling through the air. Screens hovered near the ceiling, displaying welcome messages and safety protocols.
Aren found an empty seat near the middle and sat.
That was when he noticed the applause.
It started too early.
The principal hadn't finished speaking, yet clapping rippled through the hall. Not in unison—never quite together. Some students clapped a beat late. Some stopped too early. A few smiled without clapping at all.
Aren frowned.
Probably nerves, he told himself.
He glanced to his left.
The girl sitting beside him wasn't clapping either.
She stared at the stage, fingers clenched around a worn notebook, her shoulders tense as if bracing against something invisible. Her dark hair fell into her eyes, but she didn't brush it away.
"Does this place feel loud to you?" she asked suddenly.
Aren blinked. "Loud?"
She nodded, eyes still fixed forward. "Not sound. Just… loud."
He hesitated. "It feels normal."
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, alert—like she was listening to something he couldn't hear.
"Huh," she said softly. "That's what everyone keeps saying."
The principal finished speaking. Applause swelled again, uneven as before.
"I'm Mira," she added after a moment. "Mira Hanazaki."
"Aren. Aren Kurose."
They faced the stage again, but something had shifted. Aren felt it—like the air between them had tightened.
After orientation, students were directed to assessment halls for partner evaluations. Names appeared on floating panels, pairing students seemingly at random.
Kurose, Aren — Hanazaki, Mira.
Mira let out a short, humorless laugh. "Of course."
Aren raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"No," she said. "Just… figures."
They followed the signs down a corridor that curved deeper into the academy. The walls here were older, less polished. Lights hummed faintly overhead.
Halfway down the hall, Aren slowed.
Something was wrong.
The corridor ahead stretched longer than it should have. The map on the wall said this wing ended twenty meters ahead.
It didn't.
Aren stopped walking.
Mira stopped too—at the exact same moment.
"You see it, don't you?" she asked quietly.
Aren swallowed. "There's… more hallway."
She nodded. "And it's scared."
That was when it happened.
Aren's vision sharpened painfully. The edges of the corridor flickered, like a bad video feed. For a split second, he saw another version of the space—darker, cracked, with doors lining the walls that didn't exist in the academy's layout.
Mira gasped, pressing a hand to her temple.
"So loud," she whispered. "Fear. Panic. Someone was running—"
"Students," a voice snapped.
They turned.
An instructor stood behind them, expression pleasant but eyes cold. The hallway behind him looked normal again. Short. Clean. Safe.
"You're not authorized to be here," he said. "Assessment rooms are this way."
Aren glanced back at the wall. The extra corridor was gone.
"I'm sure you experienced a synchronization anomaly," the instructor continued smoothly. "It happens sometimes with new students. Nothing to be concerned about."
Mira opened her mouth.
The instructor's smile sharpened. "And it's best not to discuss anomalies with others. They tend to… confuse people."
He gestured them forward.
The assessment passed in a blur. Controlled exercises. Basic demonstrations. Officials taking notes behind glass walls. Every time Aren focused, his perception felt muted, like someone had turned down a dial.
Mira looked pale by the end.
When it was over, students were dismissed in groups. Aren and Mira walked together without speaking until they reached the main lobby.
"Did they tell you how your power works?" Mira asked finally.
"Yes," Aren said. "Did they tell you?"
"They told me I'm sensitive," she replied. "That I should ground myself. That what I feel isn't always real."
Aren hesitated. "But you don't believe them."
She shook her head. "Do you?"
He thought of the hallway. The fear in her voice. The way the instructor had smiled.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
They reached the registration desk to collect their student IDs. A staff member handed Aren his card.
He glanced at it—and froze.
The serial number jumped from 0417 to 0419.
"Excuse me," Aren said. "This number skipped."
The staff member didn't even look surprised. She smiled politely.
"Some numbers are retired."
"Why?"
Her smile never faltered. "Orientation is over, Mr. Kurose. Enjoy your school life."
Mira leaned closer as they walked away. "Did you feel that?"
Aren nodded.
Above them, the academy lights glowed steadily. Students laughed. Teachers smiled. The city outside carried on, unaware.
Everything looked normal.
And that was the problem.