Tuesday afternoon.
Ability training begins.
The sky was a pale gray-white, with no visible boundary between clouds. The light was pressed into a single flat layer, falling evenly from above—directionless, without edges to shadows. The wind was faint, too weak to move clothing, leaving only a barely perceptible coolness near the ears.
One hundred and ninety-nine people stood in front of the laboratory building.
The number was exact.
Not approximate. Not close.
It had been confirmed by the roll-call system. 199. Displayed once on the screen. Verified once by the broadcast system. Confirmed once on the record board.
Because one was missing.
That single person was not here.
He was in an isolated room in the containment zone—individually marked by the system, assigned to a separate processing path. His existence had been extracted, like a piece removed from the whole, leaving behind an invisible hollow.
The remaining students were arranged into three lines.
The formation was so neat it bordered on rigidity. The distance between each person was identical. The space from one pair of shoes to the heels in front remained fixed. No one adjusted consciously, yet everyone aligned unconsciously.
No one spoke.
Not because they were forbidden—
but because the air here did not allow sound to linger.
The moment a sound formed, it was absorbed. By walls. By the floor. Even by the air itself. As if the space rejected unnecessary vibrations.
1:00 PM.
The class bell rang.
Clear. Clean. No trailing echo.
Like a severed line.
It did not reverberate. It did not extend. It existed for one second, then vanished.
The main doors of the laboratory building opened slowly.
Not sliding.
Not rotating.
They split apart to both sides at a constant speed—no stutter, no friction—like a precisely programmed sequence executing a fixed command.
The air inside was different.
Colder.
Drier.
Staff in white coats stepped out.
Their footsteps matched. The intervals between steps nearly identical. Their coats hung straight without sway. Their expressions were flat, their gazes steady. Even the angle of their gestures felt copy-pasted.
"In order."
"Do not stop."
No rise in tone. No deviation in volume.
The line began to move.
Not because of command.
But because someone ahead was gone.
A gap appeared.
The person behind filled it.
This was not walking—
it was a collective slide. Each person took only half a step, yet the entire formation shifted forward.
The floor was pale gray.
Close to cooled concrete, but without grain. It felt like something repeatedly washed—plastic-like, or a dense, low-rebound composite. When shoes touched it, sound was swallowed, leaving only a dull friction.
No echo.
Each step ended the moment it landed.
The air carried a disinfectant smell.
But not quite like a hospital.
It wasn't sharp. Not chemically aggressive. It felt calibrated—a concept of "cleanliness" preserved without personality. As if the scent itself had been tuned to retain function, not identity.
The first designation was called.
Not a name.
A string of letters and numbers.
The student paused slightly—not stopping, but his breathing shifted briefly. Shoulders tightened by a millimeter, then reset. He stepped out of line, well-controlled.
He glanced up at the indicator light in the corner.
Green.
Stable. No flicker.
He was led into the left-side door.
The door closed.
Silently.
The line tightened forward by one step.
Second designation.
Third.
The rhythm was fixed.
Like a pendulum.
Seven stood in the latter half of the line.
He didn't know his position.
He didn't need to.
He was calculating.
How many remained ahead.
Each pause—
one less person.
He saw the light through the door crack.
White.
Cold white.
He saw shadows cut cleanly.
Edges sharp. No trailing blur.
He saw the micro-movements before each person entered.
Shoulders tensing.
Adam's apples shifting.
Eyes drifting upward for a fraction of a second.
Some clenched their teeth.
Some pretended calm.
Some even smiled faintly.
Another person gone.
This time—
the one called began to cry.
The sound barely formed—
then was absorbed.
No echo.
No spread.
Like a drop of water into thick cloth.
The line did not stop.
Seven watched him disappear behind the door.
It closed.
The light did not change.
The rhythm continued.
Someone emerged from a side door.
Not the same person.
Another.
Clothes changed.
Gray-white.
No markings.
Perfect fit—as if measured beforehand.
He stood for a second.
His eyes unfocused.
Pupils not aligned with anything.
Then he was led away.
No turning back.
Seven memorized his stride.
Shorter.
Lighter.
As if something had been removed.
Another gap.
Seven stepped forward.
His foot landed on a seam in the floor.
The line was slightly skewed.
Not perfectly parallel with the structure.
He memorized it.
In a space this standardized—
such deviation was nearly abnormal.
The number kept decreasing.
The air seemed replaced once.
Temperature dropped by a fraction.
The scent faded—then recalibrated.
The lighting didn't visibly change.
But its intensity adjusted in increments.
Seven could feel it.
Not emotionally.
Perceptually.
When only three people remained ahead—
the space widened.
Less sound.
Two.
One.
The last person was taken.
The line vanished.
Seven stood at the front.
No designation called.
No door opened.
Time paused in front of him.
Not an error.
An extension.
Behind glass, someone stood.
Slightly taller.
Holding a record board.
Scanning.
Order.
Lights.
Records.
Seven saw him.
The man did not notice.
He simply nodded—
to the data.
Not to the person.
Seven stepped forward.
No space left to move.
The door remained closed.
As if he had been omitted—
or extracted.
Time stretched longer than before.
Someone approached him.
Their gaze lingered at his eyes—
slightly longer.
"Can you see?"
Seven nodded.
"Using your ability?"
He shook his head.
Silence extended.
Air froze.
The person marked something on the board.
Not a check.
A heavy line.
Darker than the others.
Seven memorized that line.
"Stand here."
He was guided to the wall beside the door.
The wall was cold.
Steadily cold.
No trace of body heat.
He stood.
Back against it.
He could feel the density inside the structure.
The doors continued opening and closing.
Designations called.
Records written.
Clothes changed.
Taken away.
Repeated.
The rhythm was mechanical.
He was not called.
Nor dismissed.
Time here did not flow—
it was consumed.
When the final door closed—
the line was gone.
Lights dimmed by one level.
Seven still stood there.
No order to leave.
No expulsion.
He was placed—
in a buffer.
After a while—
someone came.
"Designation."
"X-721."
Recorded.
"Follow me."
The corridor was long.
Walls white without texture.
White like an unloaded screen.
The floor smooth.
Footsteps absorbed.
No windows.
No signs.
Airflow fixed.
Left.
Right.
Right.
Left.
Every turn a perfect ninety degrees.
No dust in the corners.
They stopped at a door.
No label.
Card swipe.
Green light.
Door open.
The room was small.
One table.
Two chairs.
One overhead light.
The light fell straight down.
No shadow spread.
"Sit."
Seven sat.
The seat was cold.
Metal structure beneath.
"What's your name?"
Silence.
"Original one."
He spoke it.
Soft.
Like dust settling.
The person recorded it.
"Not needed now."
"Here, only designations."
Seven nodded.
A card was handed to him.
X-721.
Plastic.
Rounded edges.
Extremely light.
Lighter than a name.
Lighter than memory.
"This is you."
He took it.
Fingers steady.
A voice sounded outside.
"Take him to the dorm."
He stood.
Before leaving, he glanced at the table.
Scratches.
Dense.
Same direction.
Different depths.
As if the same motion had been repeated countless times.
The corridor again.
Left.
Right.
Right.
Left.
This time, he didn't memorize.
Because he knew—
he would walk it many times.
Many times.
Under the same light.
In the same temperature.
In the same calibrated air.
And he would not be omitted again.
Nor explained.
Here—
only designations were needed.
Not names.
Not emotions.
Only to be recorded.
To be taken.
To be placed.
And then—
to continue.