The alarm blares at 6:00 a.m., sharp and grating, pulling me out of a thin sleep. I roll off the futon, the wooden floor creaking under my weight in Aunt Hana's small apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo. Faint morning light slips through the single window, not quite reaching the plain walls. The air holds the smell of last night's rice and soy sauce. Hana's already gone, her factory shift starting before dawn. It's just me and the quiet.
I pull on my Apex Academy uniform: black blazer, white shirt, red tie. It fits, but it feels stiff, like it belongs to someone else. In the bathroom, the mirror's cracked corner shows my reflection—black hair messy, dark eyes too intense for seventeen. My fingers catch on a knot as I try to fix my hair, and I mutter a curse under my breath.
I grab my bag, step outside, and the door clicks shut, the sound sharp in the early morning. Tokyo's waking up. Workers trudge toward train stations, faces tired; shopkeepers open shutters with a clatter; a yakitori stall sends up smoke, the smell of grilled meat mixing with car exhaust. My shoes hit the pavement, a steady rhythm against the city's noise.
I pass a newsstand, its headlines bold—stories about prodigies, scandals, politics. A crumpled bento box sits in the gutter, rice grains stuck to its edge. I tug my hoodie up, blending into the crowd, just another face in the rush. Three years since the crash, and I'm still moving, pushed by something I can't name, like I'm trying to stay ahead of a memory.
Then I see it: Tokyo Metropolitan Apex Academy.
Its glass towers rise above the streets, catching the morning light, edges sharp against the sky. Steel gates stand tall, cherry blossoms falling gently around them, pink petals scattered on the ground. Apex is Japan's pride—a place where the best are shaped or broken. Its presence hits me, a weight in my chest.
A stray cat darts past the academy's gate, its fur wet, eyes catching the light before it slips into an alley. I pause, watching it disappear, wondering if it has anywhere to go. Probably not. Tokyo doesn't stop for strays, human or otherwise.
I adjust my bag and walk through the gates. Students stream past—a rush of black uniforms and voices. Some laugh loudly; others clutch books with nervous hands. A girl with braids laughs sharply; a boy with glasses fumbles with his tie. They're supposed to be the best. I move through them, unnoticed. I'm not here to be seen—just to keep going.
The courtyard is open, stone paths smooth under my shoes. A digital clock looms above, its red numbers counting down to the entrance ceremony: 8:00 a.m. The main building stands tall—five stories of glass and concrete. Red banners flutter, white kanji spelling out:
Excellence. Discipline. Destiny.
That last word hits hard. Destiny feels heavier when you've already escaped death once.
Inside, the auditorium is huge. High ceilings, polished wood floors shining under the lights. Hundreds of first-years fill the seats, the air smelling of wax and new uniforms. A large screen shows Apex graduates shaking hands with CEOs, holding awards. The message is clear: this is where success begins.
I take a seat near the back, arms crossed, bag at my feet. Some students whisper excitedly; others sit rigid, eyes wide. A girl two rows ahead adjusts a hair clip, its plastic catching the light. I keep my expression blank. I've learned to stay sharp, to show nothing.
A boy slides into my row, uniform neat, grin wide. "Yo, Rei Tsukumo, right?" His voice is loud. "Heard you aced the entrance exam. I'm Kenji. Friends, yeah?" He holds out a hand.
I glance at him, then away. "I don't do friends." My voice is flat.
Friends? His grin, his easy way of talking—it's from a different world, one where things are simple, where you can laugh and not feel like you're betraying something. I used to be that kid, the one who'd joke about a math problem. The crash took Mom and Dad, and it took that version of me too. Now, every connection feels like a risk. What if I let someone in, and they see the mess inside my head? The hallucinations, the dreams, the way I see things that aren't there? They'd think I'm broken. I can't let that happen. Kenji's still talking, but I don't hear him. It's a reminder: I'm alone for a reason. I need to keep solving problems, keep proving I'm still here, still sharp. Friends are just another thing I could lose.
The principal, Professor Nakamura, steps onto the stage—a thin man with gray hair and a voice that silences the room. "Welcome," he says, eyes cold, like he's already sorting us. "You are Japan's future. But Apex is not a place for comfort. It's a crucible." He pauses. "Perfection is not given—it's demanded. Some of you will lead nations. Others will fail and be forgotten. This is a proving ground. Only the strongest survive."
Perfection? I've heard it before. But it feels different when you're the only one left. I meet Nakamura's eyes for a moment, a spark of defiance in my chest, then look down.
The student council president, Aiko Tanaka, speaks next. Poised, long hair tied back, smile warm but sharp. "You've earned your place," she says, voice clear. "But that's just the beginning. Apex doesn't care about your past. It cares about what you do here." She steps forward. "You'll compete—against the curriculum, against each other, against yourselves. You'll lose sleep, doubt everything. But you'll find a purpose." Her smile softens. "Last year, I stayed up until 3 a.m. studying for a physics exam, only to realize I'd read the wrong chapter. I laughed, cried, then passed anyway. Embrace those messy moments. They make you stronger."
Her words stir the room. I stay still. Messy moments? I don't have space for those. Not when every step feels like pushing back a memory.
Kenji gives a shaky speech about "unity," his voice breaking. Half the room laughs quietly.
"Hey, you see that guy's tie?" Kenji whispers, pointing. "Looks like he tied it blindfolded." I don't laugh, just nod slightly. His grin is a brief, silly distraction.
I noticed a figure near the stage. Kaito, the third-year from the shogi match, leans against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me. No smirk—just a hard look. My pulse quickens, but I meet his gaze.
Suddenly, I hear a faint noise in my ears.
"Kill."
I look behind me. No one. My stomach drops, and my hands grip the armrests, knuckles white. It's happening again. I take a slow breath, forcing my heart to steady. I can't let it show. Emotions are a crack in the wall, a way for these hallucinations to dig deeper. If I react, if I let fear take over, they'll get worse. I know it. I've spent three years learning to lock everything down—anger, sadness, even hope. I have to stay cold. The voice isn't real. It's just my mind. But it feels so real, like someone's standing right behind me, whispering. I glance around again, making sure no one's watching. They aren't. Good. I can't let anyone see this. I focus on the stage, on Aiko's voice, anything to drown it out. I'm still here. I'm still in control.
The ceremony drags on—teachers bowing, rules listed, a choir stumbling through the anthem. My mind wanders to the yakitori stall, the way the smoke drifted. A random thought. I shift in my seat, my shoe brushing a sticky spot on the floor—probably gum.
The auditorium fills with noise—chairs scraping, voices rising—but I'm already standing, moving through the crowd, slipping out. The doors close behind me, muffling the sound. I step into the courtyard, the air cool, the sun higher now.
Kaito steps in front of me. "Care for another match?" His voice is calm, but his eyes are sharp, like he's testing me.
I feel that spark again, the need to prove myself. My fingers twitch, itching for the shogi board, but I keep my face blank. Another match means another chance to win, to show I'm still the best. But it's more than that. Kaito's not just a player—he's someone who sees me, who challenges me. That look he gave me in the auditorium, it wasn't just about shogi. It was like he knows there's more to me, something I don't let anyone see. A match is safe. It's just me, the board, and the moves. No voices, no memories, just patterns I can control. I want to say yes right now, but I know I have to stay focused. Class comes first. I can't let anything—not Kaito, not the hallucinations—throw me off. I'll take him on later, when I'm ready, when I know I can win without my head betraying me.
I reply, "Not now. Maybe after class." My voice is steady, but inside, I'm already planning my moves.
Kaito nods. "Got it. If you're ready, come to the 5th floor. Room 503."
"Okay," I say, and start walking toward my class. I can feel his eyes on my back, but I don't turn around. I need to keep moving, keep my mind on what's next. The voices and the shadows can't touch me. But part of me wonders if he sees more than I want him to. I shake it off. Not to Kaito, not to myself, not to whatever's in my head. I just have to keep going, one step at a time, and make sure no one sees the cracks.
A cherry blossom petal sticks to my shoe, pink and delicate. I nudge it off, watching it fall. I stop by the gates, looking back at Apex's towers, their glass reflecting the sky and the city.
They call it a new start. But I feel the weight in my chest, heavy with memory.I adjust my bag and keep walking, Tokyo's noise all around me.