The gate looked taller than it should have been. Its iron bars were scratched, worn, almost like it had seen decades of people passing through. I tightened the strap of my bag and stepped inside.
This wasn't my school.
The courtyard was crowded. Students clustered in groups, some confident, some pretending to be. A few sat on the stone steps, heads down, flipping through notes they probably wouldn't need. I scanned the space once—not searching, just taking it in—and moved toward the exam hall.
A bell rang.
Not the usual school bell. Low, heavy, echoing across the building. Conversations died mid-word. Even the air seemed to still.
We were guided inside. The hall stretched wider than I expected, rows of wooden desks lined with mechanical precision. No windows, only lights fixed high above us, humming softly. I found a seat and placed my admit card neatly on the desk.
A man in a dark coat stood at the front. He didn't introduce himself.
"Rules are simple," he said. "Answer what you can. Leave the rest blank. This exam is not about perfection."
He paused, scanning the room.
"It is about selection."
The papers were distributed face down.
When I turned mine over, I realized immediately—this wasn't normal.
Some questions were academic, sure. But others… they tested logic, decision-making, even morality.
You are given limited resources. Your team is injured. Do you move or wait?
A system gives you two correct answers. Which do you choose?
Silence can be used as a tool. Explain how.
I set my pencil to the paper. Not fast, not slow. Steady.
Around me, breathing filled the hall. Someone tapped a desk repeatedly. Another flipped pages too often. I didn't look up.
Time passed strangely. Minutes might have stretched into hours.
Then the bell rang again. Sudden.
Outside, clouds had gathered, gray and heavy, as if the day couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Students whispered, laughed nervously, scowled. I walked away alone, letting the crowd pass.
Three days later, a message appeared on my screen:
SELECTED. REPORT TO CENTER 04 — 08:00 SHARP.
No rank. No explanation. Just my name.
I arrived early, as instructed. This time, we weren't sent to the exam hall. We were led underground.
The corridor stretched long, white, humming panels lining the walls. At the end, a massive screen filled the space from floor to ceiling. Students gathered quietly in front. I didn't recognize anyone—not yet.
The screen flickered, a circular symbol appearing, layered and unfamiliar. Then a voice spoke. Flat, calm, precise.
"Welcome. You have passed the preliminary filter."
Some students shifted uneasily.
"This institution does not measure individuals. It evaluates systems."
The screen changed. Names appeared briefly, then vanished.
"From this point onward, grouping will be determined by adaptive compatibility."
A door opened to the side. A man stood there, leaning lightly against the frame. Relaxed posture, eyes sharp. He glanced at the screen once, then at us.
"So you're Unit 7," he said. Voice low, controlled, carrying easily.
"Good timing. Follow me."
No explanation. No dramatic pause. He turned, expecting us to move.
As I stepped forward, I realized clearly for the first time:
This wasn't a school anymore.
And whether we were ready or not… we had already stepped inside it.