The dormitory wing smelled faintly of disinfectant and new fabric, a sterile blend that clung to the back of the throat. Seiji registered it the moment the doors slid open, before he consciously took in the layout. The scent was consistent—engineered, most likely—meant to signal cleanliness, order, neutrality.
It didn't feel neutral.
The hallway stretched long and straight, walls painted an indistinct pale gray that reflected light without warmth. Identical doors lined both sides at precise intervals, each marked only with a number. No names. No personalization. The ceiling lights hummed softly, their brightness calibrated to eliminate shadow without ever becoming comfortable.
Seiji walked with the others, duffel slung over his shoulder, footsteps muffled by the matte flooring. The sound of movement felt dampened here, as if even noise had been filtered.
So this is where we're meant to rest, he thought. Where we're supposed to feel human again.
The irony didn't make him smile.
They were assigned rooms in small groups—four to a unit. The producer who oversaw the process spoke minimally, reading numbers off a tablet, gesturing for them to step forward when called.
Seiji's group included Kaito, Ayato, and a quiet trainee named Minjun, whom Seiji had only spoken to once during practice.
Ren was placed elsewhere.
The realization landed with a muted thud. Relief, maybe. Or simply recalibration.
The door to their unit slid open soundlessly.
Inside, the space was almost aggressively symmetrical. Four single beds, evenly spaced. Four identical desks bolted to the floor. Closets flush with the wall, their doors seamless, handle-less. Even the window—narrow and reinforced—was centered with mathematical precision.
Cameras were obvious here.
Not hidden in corners or behind tinted glass, but embedded directly into the architecture. Small, dark lenses set above the doorway, near the ceiling, angled to capture the entire room.
Seiji paused just long enough to count them.
Two, he thought. Maybe more.
Ayato whistled loudly. "Wow. Cozy." He dropped his bag onto the nearest bed, bouncing slightly as it landed. The mattress barely reacted. "Feels like a hospital. Or a prison. Hard to tell." Ayato continued, flopping backward dramatically. Minjun stiffened at that, eyes flicking upward toward the camera.
Kaito hovered near the doorway, as if unsure where to stand. His gaze darted between the beds, the desks, the ceiling.
Seiji watched him quietly.
He's already shrinking, Seiji noted. Even here.
Seiji set his bag down on the bed farthest from the door, closest to the window. He'd chosen it instinctively. Corners reduced angles of observation, even if only marginally.
The producer cleared her throat. "You are free to settle in. Lights out at twenty-three hundred. Curfew is enforced."
No mention of cameras. No need. The door slid shut behind her. Silence rushed in. Ayato broke it immediately.
"So, roommates. Anyone snore? Talk in their sleep? Cry quietly into their pillows?" He said, propping himself up on his elbows. Minjun didn't respond. Kaito shook his head quickly. "N-no. I mean. I don't think so."
"That's a shame. Would've been good content." Ayato grinned. Kaito flushed, shoulders tensing. Seiji intervened before the discomfort could spiral. "Beds aren't assigned. If anyone wants to switch." He said evenly.
Ayato waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, I'm good. I like being close to the door. Easy escape." Seiji didn't comment on the futility of that idea.
They unpacked in relative quiet. Clothes folded into identical drawers. Personal items were reduced to the bare minimum allowed. Seiji noticed how few things everyone had brought—how the rules, spoken and unspoken, had already narrowed their sense of ownership.
Kaito's belongings were meticulously organized. Each shirt is folded with care, edges aligned. Shoes placed side by side, laces tucked in.
Ayato's side was chaos by comparison. Snacks spilled across his desk, a towel draped carelessly over his chair.
Minjun unpacked quickly and then sat on his bed, hands folded in his lap, eyes down.
Seiji took it all in.
Public versus private behavior, he thought. Even now.
Ayato was loud because being loud had rewarded him before. Minjun was quiet because quietness had likely kept him safe. Kaito was careful—hyper-aware of judgment, even in supposed downtime.
And Seiji?
He moved with deliberation, each action considered. Not because he thought it mattered here—but because he wasn't yet convinced it didn't.
The realization that cameras were present even in this space pressed against his chest like a weight.
There is no off-stage, he thought.
Later, they were called to the common area for a brief "adjustment period."
The common room mirrored the dorms' aesthetic: clean lines, neutral colors, furniture bolted down. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by identical chairs. A vending machine hummed softly against one wall, stocked with drinks and snacks behind reinforced glass.
More cameras.
Ren was already there, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, expression openly displeased.
"This is ridiculous. Four people to a room? They want us exhausted." Ren said loudly as Seiji entered. "Speak for yourself. I sleep like a corpse." Ayato laughed. Ren's gaze flicked toward Seiji, sharp and measuring, then away again.
Still watching, Seiji thought. Still counting.
Kaito hovered near Seiji again, drawn by proximity without seeming to realize it. His shoulders were slightly hunched, eyes scanning the room. Someone—Ayato, probably—had already managed to tilt a chair back onto two legs. It scraped loudly against the floor.
"Careful. Furniture damage will be noted." A producer's voice crackled from a speaker embedded in the ceiling.
Ayato froze, then slowly set the chair down. He grinned up at the ceiling. "Just testing gravity." No response.
The silence afterward was heavier.
They sat, some talking quietly, others pretending to scroll through their tablets. Seiji noticed how conversations stalled whenever someone glanced upward, how laughter cut off too abruptly.
Self-censorship, he thought. Already. Kaito leaned closer. "Um. Do you think…they can hear us right now?" He whispered. Seiji kept his gaze forward. "Probably." Kaito swallowed. "Then…why give us this space?" Seiji considered the question.
"So we behave." He said softly. Kaito didn't respond, but Seiji felt the tension radiating from him, a tight coil of unease.
Ayato, bored, stood abruptly. "I'm getting a drink. Anyone want something?"
No one answered.
Ayato shrugged and headed for the vending machine. As he bent to inspect the options, he pressed his face close to the glass, fogging it briefly.
"Wow. They even have caffeine-free energy drinks. That's cruel." He said. "Everything here is." Ren snorted.
Ayato retrieved a drink and turned back, eyes flicking mischievously to Ren. "You're just mad you didn't get your own room." Ren's jaw tightened. "I don't need my own room. I need sleep."
"And yet, here you are. Complaining loudly. For the cameras." Ayato said cheerfully. Ren stood, chair scraping sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?" Ayato's smile widened. "Means you know they're watching."
The air between them went taut.
Seiji watched closely.
Ren's hands curled into fists, then relaxed. His expression shifted—not softer, but controlled. "Everyone knows they're watching. You don't have to perform about it." Ren said. Ayato tilted his head. "Don't I?" The tension lingered a moment longer, then dissipated as a producer's voice interrupted again, reminding them of curfew.
Ren sat back down, jaw clenched.
Ren resents being observed, Seiji thought. But he hates losing control more.
That night, back in the dorm, the lights dimmed gradually, not fully turning off but lowering to a simulated dusk. The hum of electricity seemed louder in the quiet. Minjun fell asleep quickly, breathing evenly.
Ayato lay sprawled across his bed, tablet balanced on his chest, headphones on but volume low enough that a faint sound leaked.
Kaito sat on his bed, knees drawn up, staring at his hands. Seiji pretended to scroll through his tablet, watching Kaito from the corner of his eye. After a while, Kaito spoke.
"Seiji?"
"Yes."
"Do you think… his is normal? For shows like this?"
The question was careful, tentative. Seiji chose his words. "Normal enough." Kaito nodded, but his shoulders didn't relax.
"They say it's to build teamwork. Living together. But it feels…" Kaito continued. "Exposed." Seiji supplied. Kaito let out a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah." Ayato snorted softly. "That's because it is."
Kaito startled, glancing toward him.
Ayato pushed his headphones down around his neck. "You think idols get privacy? This is just training wheels."
Seiji noted the phrasing.
Training wheels, he thought. As if it gets worse.
Ayato rolled onto his side, facing them. "Best advice? Decide what version of you they get to see. Stick to it." Kaito frowned. "Isn't that…fake?" Ayato shrugged. "Depends on how you define real."
Silence settled again.
Seiji lay back on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. One of the cameras was directly in his line of sight, its dark lens unblinking.
Even now, he thought. They're collecting something.
He wondered what narrative this quiet would become. Intimacy? Isolation? Tension?
Kaito shifted on his bed. Their eyes met briefly in the dim light. It was nothing. Just a glance. And yet Seiji felt the weight of it.
Proximity creates meaning, he reminded himself.
He turned his gaze away first.
—
The next morning, routine descended swiftly. Wake-up chimes, synchronized. Shared bathrooms with stalls that offered privacy in theory but not in sensation—Seiji could feel the awareness of being overheard, even when alone.
Breakfast in the cafeteria was subdued. Conversations murmured, glances darted.
Kaito sat beside Seiji, eating slowly, methodically.
Ayato was already on his second helping, talking animatedly to a group nearby. Ren sat with his own group, voice carrying as he complained about the eggs. "They're overcooked. Again." He said loudly.
A producer stood nearby, tablet in hand, expression unreadable.
Complaining as dominance, Seiji thought. Or as stress relief.
After breakfast, there was a brief lull before practice. Seiji returned to the dorm to retrieve something he'd forgotten. The hallway was nearly empty, the silence almost ringing. As he stepped inside the room, he froze.
Kaito was there alone, sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched, head bowed. His hands were clenched in the fabric of his pants.
Seiji hesitated at the doorway.
This isn't public, he thought. But it isn't private either.
Kaito looked up, startled. "Oh—sorry. I didn't know anyone would—" He said quickly. "It's fine." Seiji said, closing the door behind him. Kaito nodded, then fell silent again. Seiji retrieved his item, then paused.
"Are you okay?" He asked, quietly.
Kaito hesitated, then shook his head.
"I feel like…I don't know how to act. Every time I relax, I think—what if they're watching? What if that's the version they keep?" He admitted. Seiji studied him.
This is how they break people, he thought. Not by force. By uncertainty.
"You don't have to decide everything at once. Just…be consistent." Seiji said. Kaito laughed weakly. "I don't even know who that is." Seiji didn't answer immediately.
Neither do I, he realized.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Kaito stiffened instantly. Seiji stepped back, creating space between them just as Ayato burst in, full of energy. "There you are! They're calling us early." Ayato said. His gaze flicked between them, sharp despite his grin.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"No." Kaito said quickly.
Seiji didn't correct him. As they left the room, Seiji felt the camera's gaze follow them.
They'll edit this, he thought. They always do.
That night, as lights dimmed again and the dorm settled into uneasy quiet, Seiji lay awake longer than usual. Around him, the others slept—or pretended to. He stared at the ceiling, at the camera.
There is no private self here, he thought. Only unobserved moments we pretend don't count.
His thoughts drifted back to Kaito's expression earlier. The fear. The reliance.
Protecting him changes my narrative, Seiji realized. So does abandoning him.
Neither option felt neutral anymore. Somewhere in the building, systems logged data. Proximity. Interaction frequency. Eye contact. Seiji closed his eyes, face carefully composed even in sleep.
The illusion of privacy had already collapsed. What remained was choice—limited, constrained, but still his. For now.