Inside the control room, the bright terminal screens stop flickering.
The erratic brainwave graphs flatten into smooth, unmoving lines.
Dr. Akane removes his hands from the primary console and breathes out a tired sigh.
“The sequence is over,” Dr. Akane says, flipping the master switch back to its starting position.
“Turning off the simulation link now.”
Ms. Sato stands beside the main observation window, her eyes fixed on the motionless girl on the stage below.
She does not look back at the monitors.
“How do you think this trial went, Principal Kenjiro? Did the system extract the data you required?”
Principal Kenjiro keeps his hands clasped behind his back, his expression entirely unreadable.
“It performed adequately. It revealed exactly where her threshold lies. A broken tool still provides measurement.”
Down in the vast auditorium, the massive central screen abruptly cuts to black, terminating the live feed of the nightmare mindscape.
The heavy pneumatic locks on the metallic chair release with a loud hiss.
The thick iron straps holding Hina’s wrists and ankles automatically spring open.
Without the support of the restraints, her limp arms and legs slide completely off the chair.
Her body rolls forward, landing face-flat on the cold metal stage, remaining completely motionless and lifeless.
Two armored security orderlies immediately march out from the side wings of the stage, carrying a heavy canvas body bag between them.
Min-Sun leaps out of her seat in the middle row, her voice cracking as a desperate scream tears from her throat.
“No! Stop! You can’t take her away! Let her go!” She scrambles toward the aisle, tears streaming down her face.
“Hina! Wake up! Get up!”
Arashi does not move a single muscle to stop the guards.
He remains seated, his hands resting casually in his lap, his dead eyes watching the orderlies lift the limp form from the stage floor.
“Save your breath, Min-Sun San,” Arashi says, his voice completely flat, monotone, and completely devoid of any sympathy.
“They can take her. After all, it is just a body now. An empty vessel holds no value to this facility.”
Min-Sun spins around, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer rage.
She lunges forward, grabbing the thick fabric of Arashi’s orange jumpsuit with both hands, shaking him violently.
“How can you say that?!” she screams directly into his face, her teeth clenched.
“She was not just a body! She is my friend! She was a human being, Arashi!”
Arashi looks down at her trembling hands clutching his collar.
His expression remains a flawless, unbothered vacuum of emotion.
He does not pull away, nor does his pulse elevate by a single beat.
“Your grip is wrinkled fabric,” Arashi states smoothly, his low voice cutting through her frantic breathing.
“It would be in your best favor to let go of me immediately. Aggression toward a fellow candidate yields a strict deduction of points, and you cannot afford to waste your remaining utility on a useless emotional outburst.”
Min-Sun stares into his blank, hollow eyes, finding absolutely no warmth or humanity behind them.
Reluctantly, her fingers loosen.
She drops her hands, trembling all over. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
She slowly sinks back into her metal seat, burying her face in her palms as she cries gently, her shoulders shaking.
A sharp electronic beep echoes through the PA system.
The massive main screen flashes back to life, updating the active roster.
CANDIDATE 255: HINA SHEMIZU
STATUS: FAILED
SCORE: 0 POINTS
PENALTY: -50 POINTS
Min-Sun continues to weep softly, her head bowed.
Suddenly, she feels a heavy, warm hand drop onto her shoulder.
She flinches, turning her tear-stained face upward.
Hong-kung stands over her, his lips curved into his usual arrogant, egoistic smirk, though his eyes remain fixed on the stage.
“Hey, wipe those tears,” Hong-kung says, using the edge of his sleeve to roughly brush a tear from her cheek.
“There is no point in crying over the dead. Besides, I promise you that you will get to see Hina again very soon.”
Min-Sun blinks, her voice catching.
“What do you mean?”
“When you die up there on that stage, you’ll join her wherever failed candidates go,” Hong-kung replies with a dry chuckle, completely unbothered by the cruelty of his words.
“So really, it’s just a matter of time.”
Arashi tilts his head back slightly, his dead eyes shifting toward Hong-kung’s smug posture.
“I would advise you not to get so proud, Hong-kung,” Arashi interrupts, his monotone voice carrying a chilling weight.
“The mere fact that you survived your initial baseline extraction does not guarantee your long-term survival. It certainly does not mean you will make it past the scheduled day of execution.”
Hong-kung turns his smirk toward Arashi, crossing his arms defiantly.
“Oh yeah? At least my own funeral has been canceled for the time being. I proved my worth to the directors.” He raises a finger, pointing directly toward the huge screen as the digital roster shifts once more.
“Look at the board, genius. It looks like your clock just ran out.”
The glowing text on the monitor updates in bright crimson letters.
NEXT CANDIDATE – CANDIDATE 235: ARASHI TANAKA
Hong-kung bursts into a loud, mocking laugh, leaning back against the row of seats.
“Candidate 235. That’s you, isn’t it? You talk so much about statistics and utility, but you are going to die up there just like Hina did. The machine is going to tear that cold little brain of yours to pieces.”
Arashi stands up smoothly from his seat.
He doesn’t look at the screen, nor does he look at Hong-kung’s pointing finger.
He reaches down, calmly smoothing out the wrinkles Min-Sun had left on his jumpsuit jacket.
“If that is the conclusion your intellect has reached, then I cordially invite you to my own funeral,” Arashi says, his tone completely level, as if he were discussing the weather.
“Though I doubt they will allow a public gathering for a discarded asset. Oh well. Everybody dies eventually. The timing of the event is entirely irrelevant to the grander equation.”
He slides both of his hands deep into his jumpsuit pockets, stepping out into the narrow aisle.
Before he can take a single step toward the stage, Min-Sun quickly moves in front of him, completely blocking his path.
Her eyes are still red from crying, but a sudden, desperate determination shows in her face. Get faster updates on g.com.
She reaches out, blocking his advance.
“Arashi, wait,” Min-sun says, her voice shaking but firm.
“Think about the first time we met in this place. You saved me . If you could save me back then… can I also save you now?”
Arashi stops walking.
He looks down at her, his face remaining a perfect, unreadable mask.
“Your proposition lacks logical foundation, Min-Sun. The simulation is a closed-loop neural interface. External assistance is physically impossible.”
“I don’t care about the machine’s programming!” Min-Sun insists, taking a step closer, her hands reaching out toward him.
“There has to be something I can do. Tell me what I can do to repay you for getting me this far. I don’t want to watch another person slide off that chair.”
Arashi pauses for a brief moment.
His dead eyes analyze her posture, measuring her heart rate based on the pulse vibrating in her throat, calculating her emotional threshold.
“If you truly wish to repay the perceived debt,” Arashi says flatly, his voice echoing softly in the quiet aisle, “then give it all you have when it is your own turn on the stage. Maximize your own score. If you fail your trial out of grief, the initial investment I made in saving you will become a net negative. Do not become a waste of resources.”
Min-Sun stares at him, her lips parting slightly in disbelief at his cold calculation.
Before she can utter another syllable, Arashi steps around her, completely ignoring her lingering gaze.
He walks down the long aisle with precise, measured steps.
The thousands of candidates in the auditorium watch him pass in absolute silence, their eyes tracking the boy who shows no fear, no anger, and no hesitation.
Arashi ascends the metal steps of the main stage.
The heavy spotlight falls directly upon him, casting a long, sharp shadow behind his frame.
He approaches the metallic chair, ignoring the faint, dark stains of blood left on the armrests from the previous candidate.
He turns around and takes a seat, sitting perfectly upright.
The moment his back presses against the cold structure, the internal mechanisms engage with a heavy clank.
The thick iron straps slide over his legs and hands, locking him securely to the chair.
Arashi does not flinch.
His breathing remains perfectly rhythmic, his eyelids blinking at a steady, uninterrupted rate.
From the dark ceiling above, the sleek, massive helmet begins its smooth descent.
It settles heavily over his head, the dark visor sliding down to completely seal his vision away from the auditorium.
Inside the helmet, the cold, automated static hums to life.
Up in the control room, the technicians operate their glowing terminals, bringing up Arashi’s biometric data.
“Candidate 235 is secured, Doctor,” a technician reports, adjusting a series of frequency dials.
“Spiritual baseline is completely flat lines. Heart rate is seventy beats per minute. No physiological signs of stress detected.”
Principal Kenjiro steps closer to the glass window, looking down at the dark helmet on the stage.
“An anomalously stable baseline. Let us see how long that composure lasts under direct psychic extraction. Dr. Akane, engage the simulation.”
“Initiating neural override now, sir,” Dr. Akane replies, pulling the heavy master switch downward.
Immediately, the massive central screen in the auditorium turns pitch black.