Free practice was a lie.
Seiji understood that within the first five minutes.
The message on their tablets had been deceptively simple—**FREE PRACTICE BLOCK (3 HOURS)**—no additional notes, no warnings. After the rigid structure of the orientation drill, the word *free* felt almost indulgent, like a reward. A release.
The practice rooms told a different story.
Seiji chose Studio C because it was quieter than the others. Or at least, it sounded that way. The door slid open soundlessly, revealing a wide rectangular space bathed in pale, even light. The mirrors ran the length of two walls. The other two were matte white, broken only by ventilation panels and—there.
The glass.
At first glance, it looked like another mirror. Slightly darker tint. Seamless integration into the wall. But when Seiji shifted his angle, the reflection didn't quite line up.
One-way.
He stepped inside anyway.
The door sealed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
The room smelled faintly of rubber and cleaning solution. The floor was warm under his socks, heated just enough to keep muscles loose. A detail that felt thoughtful. Calculated.
They want us comfortable enough to perform, Seiji thought. Not comfortable enough to forget.
A few other trainees were already there. Ren occupied the far corner, headphones in, drilling footwork with aggressive precision. Ayato sprawled near the mirrors, stretching lazily, one eye on his own reflection, the other on the room. Kaito hovered near the wall, arms wrapped around himself as if unsure where to stand.
No one acknowledged Seiji when he entered.
He preferred it that way.
Seiji placed his tablet down near the sound system and began warming up slowly, deliberately. He rolled through his joints, loosened his ankles, stretched his back. Nothing flashy. Nothing that suggested urgency.
Free practice, he reminded himself. Which means they're watching how we choose to be seen. He caught a flicker of movement in the dark glass.
A silhouette. Indistinct.
Someone was definitely there.
Seiji's pulse quickened—not with fear, but with confirmation.
So this is the room, he thought. The real one.
He started the music. Not yesterday's choreography. Something simpler. Controlled. A piece he knew well enough to strip down and rebuild in real time. He let his body move with it, precise but restrained, as if he were still warming up rather than performing.
He could feel the mirrors watching him. The glass was watching him. The people behind the glass are watching him watch himself.
A strange layering of awareness settled over him.
Ren's footwork grew louder, sharper, the impact of each step punctuating the music Seiji had chosen. Ayato snorted, clearly unimpressed, and switched tracks on his own tablet, blasting something heavier, more aggressive.
The room became a collision of sounds.
Kaito flinched.
Seiji noticed how Kaito's shoulders crept up toward his ears, how his eyes kept darting to the glass even though he didn't seem fully aware of why. Yesterday's ranking still clung to him, visible in the way he moved—or didn't.
*Pressure lingers, Seiji thought. It doesn't reset with the day.
Minutes passed.
Then the first comment appeared. Seiji's tablet vibrated softly. He didn't look at it immediately.
Timing matters, he told himself. They're watching reactions.
He finished the phrase he was in the middle of, then reached down casually, as if checking a notification from home.
The screen displayed a single line of text. No name attached. No context.
**"Clean lines. Expression feels held back."**
Seiji stared at it for half a second too long.
Then he locked the screen and stood.
Held back, he repeated internally. Not wrong. Not praise. Not criticism.
A hook.
He resumed dancing, but something had shifted. Not in his body—in his attention. The comment replayed itself as he moved, subtly altering his choices. He let his gaze lift a fraction more on the turns. Let his shoulders relax into the flow instead of bracing against it.
Not too much.
If I overcorrect, they'll know, he thought. And if I don't react at all…
He didn't finish the thought. Another vibration, this time from across the room. Ayato barked out a laugh. "What the hell does that even mean?" Ren stopped dancing. He glanced at his tablet, jaw tightening. His reflection in the mirror looked almost predatory, like he was daring the comment to say more.
Kaito's tablet chimed.
Kaito froze.
He stared at the screen, face draining of color. Seiji didn't need to see the text to know what it said. Kaito sank onto the floor, back against the wall, tablet clutched in both hands. His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven.
Selective, Seiji realized. They're not giving everyone the same kind of feedback.
He slowed his movements deliberately, shifting into stretches again, giving himself an excuse to observe without appearing to observe. Ren paced, running a hand through his hair. "This is bullshit. They don't even—" He muttered, not quite under his breath.
He cut himself off, glancing toward the glass.
"Getting to you already?" Ayato grinned.
"Shut up."
Ayato laughed, louder this time, like he wanted the sound to carry. Seiji's tablet vibrated again. He waited three seconds. Then he checked.
**"Improved eye line. Be careful not to disappear."**
His throat tightened.
Disappear.
The word felt heavier than it should have. He looked up at his reflection. He looked the same. Same face. Same posture. Same controlled calm. But the comment implied absence. Not failure—absence.
They don't want you invisible, he thought. They want you legible.
Understanding slid into place with a quiet, nauseating clarity. This wasn't about dancing. It wasn't even about performance. It was about perception.
The people behind the glass weren't just watching what the trainees did. They were deciding what those actions meant. And then, through these fragments of feedback, they were nudging the trainees toward interpretations that suited whatever narrative they were testing.
Audience, Seiji thought, and the word expanded in his mind, no longer limited to the producers he could almost see. Not judges. Audience.
He watched how Ayato responded—laughing off every comment, exaggerating his movements more, leaning into chaos. He watched Ren grow more rigid, more intense, his frustration sharpening his edges. He watched Kaito shrink, folding inward under the weight of whatever words sat on his screen.
Reaction patterns, Seiji cataloged. Stress responses.
Ren equated pressure with force. Ayato with defiance. Kaito with self-erasure. Seiji swallowed.
And me?
The door slid open. Itsuki stepped in like he belonged there. He clapped his hands once, lightly. "Wow. Tense room." No one responded. Itsuki smiled anyway, eyes bright, scanning the space. His gaze lingered on the glass wall for a beat longer than necessary, then flicked back to Seiji.
"You're good at choosing when to move. That's not something everyone learns early." Itsuki commented as he walked past Seiji. Seiji inclined his head. "I just don't like wasting energy."
"Mm. Or attention." Itsuki hummed. The word landed with intent. Seiji met his gaze. Itsuki's smile didn't waver, but there was something sharp beneath it. Appraisal, maybe. Recognition.
"You noticed the comments. How they're…curated." Itsuki continued, lowering his voice just enough. "I noticed they're inconsistent." Seiji replied carefully. "Same thing." Itsuki laughed softly.
He leaned closer—not invading space, but closing distance in a way that felt deliberate. If anyone were watching, it would read as casual camaraderie.
"Here's a tip. They don't care if you're confused. They care if you're interesting while confused." Itsuki said. Seiji felt a chill. "You seem like someone who prefers clarity. But clarity doesn't always rank well." Itsuki added.
Before Seiji could respond, Itsuki straightened, clapping his hands again. "Anyway! Don't let me interrupt. Free practice, right?"
He moved away, humming lightly to himself, as if the conversation had meant nothing.
Seiji stood still.
Mentorship, he thought. Or bait.
Probably both.
His tablet vibrated again.
This time, he didn't look right away.
He watched Kaito instead, who was finally standing again, movements tentative, eyes red. He watched Ren force himself back into the choreography, jaw clenched, aggression leaking into every step. He watched Ayato lean even harder into recklessness, glancing at the glass as if daring it to blink.
They're all responding, Seiji thought. Just differently.
When he finally checked his tablet, the comment was brief.
**"Adaptable."**
No praise. No warning.
A label.
Seiji locked the screen.
The realization settled fully now, heavy and inescapable.
This place didn't just evaluate performance. It manufactured interpretation. And once an interpretation existed, it would spread—through edits, through commentary, through whatever version of reality the audience was fed.
If you don't control the narrative, Seiji thought, someone else will.
The free practice block ended without announcement. The lights shifted subtly, signaling transition. The glass wall darkened, becoming a mirror again.
As they filed out, Seiji caught his reflection layered over the room behind him. For a moment, he couldn't tell which version was more real—the boy walking calmly toward the door, or the image that would be constructed from today's fragments. He kept his expression neutral.
Not invisible.
Not exposed.
Just enough.
Tomorrow, he knew, the comments would be different. And next time, he wouldn't just react to them. He would anticipate them.