The room had no mirrors.
That was the first thing Seiji noticed.
They were led in without explanation, through a narrower corridor than usual, walls darkened to a muted gray that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. The temperature dropped perceptibly as the door slid shut behind them, sealing with a soft hydraulic sigh.
The space beyond was circular.
Tiered seating curved around the perimeter, all facing inward toward a cluster of vertical screens suspended from the ceiling like hanging blades. No stage. No center point to stand on. Just chairs arranged in an imperfect ring, forcing everyone to look at the same thing—or at each other.
Seiji took his seat automatically, posture straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
The absence of mirrors felt wrong. Disorienting.
So today isn't about how we look, he thought. It's about how we're seen.
The lights dimmed—not fully, but enough to push faces into half-shadow. The screens flickered to life. A producer's voice filled the room, calm and neutral.
"This session will introduce you to external response modeling."
No elaboration.
The screens shifted again.
Graphs bloomed across them—clean, minimalist lines in varying colors, rising and falling against invisible axes. Labels appeared briefly, then faded.
**ENGAGEMENT INDEX**
**ATTACHMENT VELOCITY**
**EMOTIONAL RESONANCE**
Seiji's eyes tracked the data automatically, instinctively searching for pattern and scale.
They're not normalized, he realized. Or they're pretending not to be.
"Based on recent evaluations, you will be shown a simulation of audience response." The voice continued
A pause.
"This data reflects perception. Not intention." The first clip played. It was Ren's stage presence exercise. Seiji watched with the rest of them, though he'd already memorized the performance. Ren on stage, intense and unyielding, body sharp against the lights.
The clip ended.
The graphs surged.
Comments scrolled beneath them, white text on black, moving just fast enough to read but not fast enough to dismiss.
— *He's terrifying in a good way.*
— *Too aggressive? I can't tell if I like it or not.*
— *He looks like he'd break if he lost.*
— *I'm obsessed.*
The graphs spiked again.
Ren leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked on the screens. His breathing was audible now, shallow and quick. The producer's voice returned. "High polarization correlates with sustained visibility."
Seiji's attention sharpened.
Love and unease, he thought. Together.
The next clip played.
Itsuki.
Bright smile, fluid movement, effortless charm. The comments were warmer, more uniform.
— *He feels safe.*
— *Perfect idol material.*
— *I could watch him all day.*
The graphs rose steadily, then plateaued.
"Consistency stabilizes attachment." The voice said. Seiji glanced sideways. Itsuki watched the data with a faint smile, head tilted, as if already familiar with the outcome. Then—Seiji's clip. The room seemed to hold its breath.
He watched himself from the outside for the first time since the performance. The restraint. The measured stillness. The way his gaze lingered just long enough to suggest something unspoken.
The clip cut.
The graphs twitched.
Rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
The comments appeared.
— *Why does he look like he's hiding something?*
— *I can't stop thinking about him.*
— *He's boring.*
— *No, he's not. He's dangerous.*
Seiji felt a tight, involuntary thrill curl in his stomach.
Contradiction, he thought. They're feeding us contradictions.
The producer didn't comment. Instead, the next clip played.
Kaito.
Kaito's hands clenched in his lap as he watched himself hesitate onstage, the brief flicker of panic before he recovered. The comments were harsher here, less filtered.
— *He looks lost.*
— *Why is he even here?*
— *I want to protect him.*
— *He's going to get hurt.*
The graphs dipped sharply, then surged upward in a different color. Kaito made a small, confused sound. "W-what…?" His eyes darted between the numbers and the comments, trying to reconcile them.
"I'm…going down. But—why is this one going up?" He asked softly. Seiji leaned slightly toward him, careful not to draw attention. "Look at the labels. Not the direction." Seiji murmured. Kaito squinted. "Attachment…velocity?"
"It measures change. Not approval." Seiji said. Kaito's brow furrowed. "So…they like me?"
Seiji hesitated.
How much do I say? he wondered. And why do I want to say any of it at all?
"They're reacting to you. Strong reactions move faster than mild ones." He said, finally. Kaito stared at the screen, lips parted. "But they're saying bad things."
"And good ones. At the same time." Seiji replied quietly. The producer's voice cut in, as if on cue. "Emotional clarity is not required for engagement. Ambiguity often increases fixation." She said.
Kaito looked like he might be sick.
Seiji felt something shift inside him—not pity exactly, but recognition. The same unsettled understanding that had taken root during free practice now sharpened into something actionable.
Perception isn't just unstable, he thought. It's malleable.
The session continued.
Clip after clip. Data layered over performance. Comments curated to contradict the numbers, numbers contradicting the comments. Some trainees were praised verbally while their graphs stagnated. Others were criticized harshly while their engagement metrics spiked.
Ayato laughed loudly at his own segment, clearly delighted by the chaos of it. Ren watched him with narrowed eyes, jaw set, already recalibrating.
Seiji watched everything.
He noted which comments were paired with which metrics. Which emotional responses seemed to be rewarded. How fear could spike attachment just as effectively as admiration.
They're not showing us the audience, he realized. They're showing us a weaponized version of it.
When the lights came back up, the room felt smaller.
"You may discuss. Briefly." The producer said. No one moved at first. Then the murmurs began. "This doesn't make sense." Someone whispered. "It's fake." Another said, too loudly.
Itsuki turned in his seat, resting an elbow on the back of his chair. "It makes sense. If you stop thinking of fans as people." He said lightly. A few heads snapped toward him.
"Think of them as mirrors. They reflect whatever you give them. Sometimes distorted. Sometimes amplified." Itsuki continued. Seiji met his gaze. Itsuki smiled, eyes sharp. You see it too, the look seemed to say.
Kaito tugged lightly at Seiji's sleeve. "So…what should I do?"
The question was quiet. Earnest.
Seiji felt the weight of it.
This is how it starts, he thought. Not with manipulation. With explanation.
"Don't chase the numbers. Watch how they move." Seiji said softly. Kaito nodded, clinging to the advice like a lifeline. "Okay. Okay." He whispered. The session ended without a conclusion.
They were dismissed back into the corridors, the graphs and comments lingering in their minds like afterimages burned into the retina.
—
That evening, the dormitory lights dimmed on schedule.
Seiji sat on his bed, tablet resting on his knees, though the screen was dark. Takumi lay across from him, glasses off, staring at the ceiling.
"Did you notice that the comments weren't time-stamped?" Takumi said quietly. Seiji glanced over. "Yes."
"They could've been from anywhere. Any point in time." Takumi continued. "Or nowhere." Seiji added. Takumi exhaled slowly. "So they're not showing us reality."
"They're showing us leverage." Seiji said. Takumi turned his head slightly, studying him. "You're adapting quickly." The observation wasn't accusatory. Just precise. Seiji shrugged lightly. "I don't think we have a choice."
Across the room, the camera's red light glowed steadily.
Later, during a lull in the hallway, Kaito approached Seiji again.
"Um. Can I…practice with you tomorrow?" He asked, hesitant. Seiji hesitated. Proximity creates narrative, a voice in his head reminded him. Not his own. Itsuki's. Or the producer's. Or no one's.
"Sure." He said.
Kaito's face lit up with relief, too bright for the dim corridor. "Thank you." He said earnestly. As Kaito walked away, Seiji felt eyes on him. Ren stood at the end of the hall, watching with an expression Seiji couldn't quite read. Not anger. Not curiosity. Assessment.
They'll read into this, Seiji thought. All of it.
The realization didn't repel him.
It energized him.
That night, lying awake, Seiji replayed the graphs in his mind. The spikes. The contradictions. The way uncertainty fed engagement.
Emotion is a resource, he thought. And confusion is a multiplier.
He didn't like the conclusion.
He didn't reject it either.
The camera watched as Seiji closed his eyes, his expression calm, already rehearsing versions of himself that would land differently depending on who was watching. For the first time, the thought surfaced clearly, unavoidably:
If perception can be manipulated…then so can survival.
He let the idea settle. He did not push it away.