Consciousness did not return all at once.
It seeped back in fragments—first as pressure against his cheek, then as the distant hum of breath not his own. Ren became aware of hardness beneath him, cold and unwelcoming. The air carried a faint metallic scent, subtle yet persistent, as though the room had been sealed for too long.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. It bore no resemblance to the orderly plaster panels of his classroom. Instead, dim industrial lights were embedded in a high, shadowed surface, casting a pale, diffused glow that struggled to define the boundaries of the space.
He did not move immediately.
Sound came next—low murmurs, uneven breathing, fabric shifting against the floor. A faint groan to his left. Someone whispering a name.
Ren rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright.
They were all there.
Thirty-six students—scattered at first glance, but gradually coalescing into something deliberate. The room was vast and circular, its walls smooth and seamless, devoid of windows. The floor bore a faint radial pattern, lines etched into the surface that converged toward the center—toward him.
No.
Not toward him.
Toward the center itself.
Others were waking. Some sat up abruptly, alarm etched across their faces. A few remained frozen, staring at the walls as if expecting them to dissolve and reveal a familiar corridor beyond.
"Where are we?" someone asked, voice cracking.
No one answered.
The class president rose unsteadily to his feet. His composure, usually so intact, was fractured but not entirely gone. He surveyed the room with narrowed eyes, measuring the silence.
"This isn't the school," he said, unnecessarily.
A nervous laugh erupted from the back, sharp and brittle. "Obviously."
Ren stood slowly. His limbs felt heavier than usual, as though gravity had adjusted itself slightly. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the uniform curvature of the walls, the absence of doors, the sterile lighting.
There were no windows.
No visible exits.
A ripple of unease spread through the group as realization crystallized. Several students rushed toward the walls, pressing palms against the smooth surface, searching for seams, hinges, any sign of artificial concealment.
Nothing.
One boy struck the wall with his fist. The dull thud that followed carried no echo.
Panic began its quiet ascent—not explosive, but creeping. It manifested in shallow breathing, in overlapping questions, in glances cast too quickly and withdrawn too soon.
"Is this some kind of prank?"
"Who would even do this?"
"We were in class—weren't we?"
Memory returned in jagged pieces. The heaviness. The blurred vision. The fall.
Ren swallowed. His throat felt dry.
At the exact center of the circular floor, faint lines began to glow.
The light was subtle at first—thin threads tracing the radial markings already present. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
The glow intensified.
A perfect ring illuminated itself around them, not trapping but defining the space they occupied. The students instinctively stepped back, forming a loose, uneven perimeter around the emerging circle.
Then a sound resonated—soft, mechanical, precise.
A panel in the floor rose smoothly from the center.
Gasps scattered across the room.
The structure that emerged was minimal: a slender column of matte black metal, waist-high, its surface seamless except for a narrow horizontal strip that emitted a steady white light.
No one approached it.
The class president hesitated only briefly before stepping forward. "Stay back," he instructed, though his voice lacked full authority.
Ren remained where he was, neither advancing nor retreating.
The white strip flickered.
Then words appeared.
Not projected into the air, not spoken through hidden speakers, but displayed in stark digital clarity across the column's surface.
Welcome.
The word hung there, clinical and indifferent.
A murmur rippled through the group.
The text shifted.
You have been selected to participate.
Selected.
The term lingered in the collective consciousness like an accusation.
"Participate in what?" a girl demanded, her voice trembling despite the force behind it.
As if responding, the text updated once more.
A closed-system social deduction experiment.
Silence descended—thicker this time, heavier than confusion alone.
The class president exhaled slowly. "This is ridiculous."
Another line appeared.
All participants are required. Noncompliance is not an option.
The words carried no emphasis, yet the implication was unmistakable.
A sharp metallic click echoed from somewhere above. Several students flinched instinctively.
Ren's gaze drifted upward. Embedded along the upper curvature of the wall were small, nearly invisible apertures—too symmetrical to be accidental.
Cameras.
The realization struck the room almost simultaneously. Faces tightened. Postures stiffened.
"We're being watched," someone whispered.
The column's light pulsed once.
Further instructions will follow.
The glow dimmed slightly but did not vanish.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then the questions returned, louder, colliding with one another. Demands for explanation. Accusations without direction. Fear edging closer to hysteria.
Ren felt his pulse accelerate—not dramatically, but enough to notice. This was no prank staged by classmates. The precision of the environment, the controlled illumination, the deliberate wording—it all suggested design.
Intent.
And someone, somewhere, had orchestrated it.
The class president raised his voice above the noise. "Everyone, calm down. Panicking won't help."
It was the correct thing to say. It did not fully work.
Ren looked around the circle—at familiar faces now stripped of routine certainty. Friends. Rivals. Acquaintances. Thirty-six individuals bound not by choice, but by circumstance.
The white strip on the column flickered again, brighter than before.
A final message appeared.
The first phase will commence at nightfall.
Several students instinctively glanced upward, as though expecting a visible sun to confirm the statement. The lighting in the room did not change.
But somewhere, unseen mechanisms hummed faintly—adjusting.
Preparing.
Ren did not speak.
He simply stood within the circle, aware that whatever "phase" awaited them would not resemble anything their ordinary lives had prepared them to endure.
And for the first time since waking, the room felt smaller than its dimensions suggested.