### Chapter 3: "Faces in the Crowd"

  The auditorium’s noise fades as I slip into the halls, the crowd thinning out behind me. My schedule’s burned into my head—Class 1-A, third floor, first door on the right. Apex doesn’t waste time; day one’s already a gauntlet. I climb the stairs, shoes clicking on polished tile, and push through the door. The classroom’s alive before I even step in—25 bodies buzzing with energy, a mix of arrogance and nerves. I pick a seat near the back, by the window, and let my bag hit the floor. No one notices. Good. I lean back, cross my arms, and watch.

  They’re all here—the chosen, Apex’s so-called future. My eyes slide from face to face, picking them apart like pieces on a board. No need to talk; I’ll figure them out before they figure me.

  First, there’s the girl two rows up, front and center—braids tied tight, glasses perched on her nose. She’s hunched over a notebook, scribbling even though nothing’s started. *Eager. Too eager. Probably memorized the textbook already, but she’s trembling—pressure’s eating her alive. Weak under stress.* I shift my gaze. Next to her, a guy with slicked-back hair and a smirk, leaning back like he owns the room. *Loudmouth. Confident, but it’s a front—his fingers tap the desk, restless. He’ll crack when it gets real.* Across the aisle, a quiet one—short, messy hair, staring out the window like me. *Doesn’t care—or pretends not to. Sharp eyes, though. Watching more than he lets on. Dangerous, maybe.*

  Then there’s the big one near the door—Haruto, I’d bet my life on it. Broad shoulders, buzzed hair, glaring at everyone like they owe him something. *He’s the type to swing first, think later. Hates losing more than he loves winning. Already looking for a fight.* He catches my eye, scowls, and I look away. Not worth it. Not yet. The rest blur together—some fidget, some chat, some sit stiff like statues. *Twenty-five pawns, rooks, and knights. No kings here. Just me, and I’m not playing.*

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The door swings open, cutting the chatter dead. The teacher strides in—tall, thin, glasses glinting under the lights. Professor Sato, science division, says the badge on his coat. He doesn’t smile, just drops a stack of syllabi on the desk and stares us down. “Class 1-A,” he starts, voice clipped. “You’re at Apex now. Forget what you know—here, you earn every breath.” I tune out the posturing; it’s the same spiel from the ceremony. My mind’s still in the room, the pieces shifting around me.

  Sato launches into the school rundown—labs on the fourth floor, library’s a maze of restricted sections, dorms for those who can afford it. “Discipline is non-negotiable,” he says, pacing. “Step out of line, and you’re gone. Step up, and you might survive.” *Might.* He’s not wrong—Apex is a machine, and we’re the gears. I glance out the window; Tokyo sprawls below, gray and endless. Survive. That’s all I’ve ever done.

  Class kicks off with physics—kinematics, velocity, the basics dressed up in Apex’s brutal style. Sato scribbles equations on the board, rapid-fire, then turns. “Solve it. Now.” The room scrambles—pencils scratching, breaths hitching. I don’t move. It’s simple—v = u + at, plug in the numbers, done. I’ve seen worse in my sleep. Sato’s eyes land on me, narrow. “Tsukumo. Answer.” I stand, recite it flat: “Twelve meters per second.” He nods, moves on. Haruto mutters something—probably “show-off”—but I don’t bite. Not worth the air.

  The day drags—physics to math to history, a blur of lectures and tests. I keep my head down, answers flowing like water. No one talks to me, and I don’t care. The bell rings at 3:00 p.m., and I’m out before the chairs stop scraping. First day’s over. Nothing broke me. Yet.

  The convenience store’s a block from Apex—fluorescent lights, stale air. I grab a bento—rice, fish, pickled vegetables, cheap and quick—and pay without a word. The walk to my aunt’s is silent, Tokyo’s hum a dull roar in my ears. Her place is dark when I get in; she’s still at work. I sit at the low table, peel open the bento, and eat. It’s fuel, not food—tastes like cardboard, but it keeps me going. The clock ticks. 6:32 p.m. I finish, toss the box, and head to my room.

  The futon’s still unrolled from this morning. I drop onto it, back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Day one’s in the books. Apex is what I thought—sharp, cold, a grinder for minds. I can handle it. I have to. My hand drifts to the scar on my arm, tracing the jagged line. “Live, Rei…” Her voice cuts through, soft and sharp, like it always does. I close my eyes, willing it away. The room’s quiet, but my shadow on the wall feels… off. Heavy. I don’t look. No tonight...

  Not ....

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