The alarm cuts through the silence at 6:00 a.m., sharp and unforgiving. I roll out of bed, the thin futon creaking under me. My aunt’s apartment is small, a gray box on the edge of Tokyo, all concrete walls and dim light. She’s already gone—early shift at the factory—so it’s just me and the quiet. I pull on the Apex Academy uniform: crisp black blazer, white shirt, red tie. It feels heavy, like it’s wearing me instead of the other way around. The mirror shows a stranger—hair messy, eyes too old for seventeen. I smooth it down, grab my bag, and step out into the morning.

  The walk to Apex isn’t far, but it’s long enough to think. The city hums awake—salarymen shuffling to trains, shopkeepers rolling up shutters, the air thick with exhaust and promise. My shoes tap the pavement, a steady rhythm against the chaos. I pass a newsstand, headlines screaming about prodigies and politics, and keep my head down. Tokyo’s alive, but I feel like a ghost moving through it—here, but not really. Three years since the crash, and I’m still just… moving.

  Then I see it: Tokyo Metropolitan Apex Academy. From the street, it’s a fortress—glass towers stabbing the sky, framed by steel gates that gleam like they’re daring you to try. Cherry blossoms line the path, petals drifting in the breeze, soft against the hard edges. It’s Japan’s crown jewel, they say—the place where geniuses are born or broken. I pause at the entrance, bag slung over my shoulder, and take it in. The walls pulse with expectation, every window hiding a mind sharper than the last. My old school was a sandbox; this is a battlefield.

  Students stream past me, a tide of black uniforms and chatter. Some stride like they own the place, others clutch books like lifelines. A girl with braids laughs too loud; a boy with glasses adjusts his tie nervously. They’re the best of the best—or so they think. I blend into the flow, letting it carry me through the gates. No one looks twice. Good. I’m not here to be seen—just to survive.

  Inside, the courtyard sprawls wide, all polished stone and manicured trees. A digital clock looms overhead, ticking down to the entrance ceremony: 8:00 a.m. The main building’s a monster—five stories of glass and concrete, every line screaming precision. Banners flutter in the wind, red kanji blazing: “Excellence. Discipline. Destiny.” I smirk faintly. Destiny’s a loaded word when you’ve cheated death once. The air buzzes with energy, sharp and electric, like a storm about to break. This isn’t a school—it’s a machine, grinding down the weak to sharpen the strong. I can feel it watching me, sizing me up. Fine. Let it try.

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  The auditorium doors swing open, and we file in—hundreds of us, first-years herded into rows of plush seats. The room’s massive, all high ceilings and sleek wood, lights glinting off a stage that could double as a theater. A giant screen flickers to life behind the podium, cycling through images: Apex alumni shaking hands with prime ministers, winning Nobel Prizes, commanding boardrooms. The message is clear: this is where greatness begins. I sit near the back, arms crossed, scanning the crowd. Some kids whisper excitedly; others sit rigid, eyes wide. Me? I just watch.

  The principal steps up—Professor Nakamura, a wiry man with gray hair and a voice like steel. “Welcome,” he says, and the room snaps silent. “You are the chosen—Japan’s future rests in your hands. But make no mistake: Apex Academy demands perfection. Only the exceptional survive here.” His gaze sweeps over us, cold and unyielding, like he’s already picking winners from losers. I meet his eyes for a second, then look away. Perfection, huh? I’ve heard that before.

  Next comes the student council president, a third-year named Aiko Tanaka. She’s all poise—long hair tied back, voice smooth as silk. “You’ve earned your place,” she says, smiling just enough to seem human. “But earning it is only the start. Prove you belong.” The screen shifts to stats: last year’s top scores, competition wins, graduation rates. Apex doesn’t just teach—it ranks, it pits us against each other. I can already feel the weight of it, the eyes waiting for someone to stumble.

  Then the first-year rep—a nervous kid named Kenji—stumbles through a speech about “unity” and “effort.” Half the room smirks; the other half claps politely. I tune him out, tracing the scar on my arm through my sleeve. Unity’s a fairy tale here. This place thrives on rivalry, on clawing your way up. I don’t need friends—I need answers, solutions, a way to keep going. That’s what got me through the crash, through the years after. That’s what’ll get me through this.

  The ceremony drags on—teachers introduced, rules recited, an anthem sung off-key. My mind drifts, but not far. The crash flickers in—tires screeching, glass shattering, her voice: “Live, Rei…” I blink it away, fingers tightening on my bag. Not now. Not here. The room erupts into noise—chairs scraping, voices rising—but I’m already up, slipping out before the crowd swallows me.

  Outside, the sun’s climbing, burning off the morning haze. I pause by the gates, looking back at Apex’s towers. It’s a new start, they say. A chance to be more. But as I walk away, my shadow stretches long behind me, and for a split second, it feels… heavier. I shake it off and keep moving.

  **End of Chapter 2.**