FIVE

Having lived by himself for two years, the sudden and brutal knock on the door startled Kuro. He jumped and rushed to the door as he cleaned his eyes. Just as he grabbed the doorknob, he stopped.

"Where am I?" he uttered.

A clean room. Empty except for the bed he slept on and a white desk that Kuro inferred wasn't for him. He considered going there when the knocking forced him back. 

The door had no peephole, which Kuro lamented. Kuro seized it, already dreading what he would see. 

The first time he had seen the apparitions, it was in such a moment. He opened his apartment door to greet his neighbor as she wanted to give her condolences for his... for his loss. 

Needless to say, nothing would've prepared him to see the monstrosity behind the door, leading to him passing out and ending up in the hospital. It was one of many he would endure in the following three months before he got it 'under control'.

At first, Kuro remembered little from before. Everything was still foggy, but he sure didn't forget Shindo Aiki in her monstrous form. The syringe and the serum, as well as Shindo's face afterward. It all came to him quickly. coupled with a headache.

The door slammed open. He had taken too much time to ponder. Kuro readied himself for what was to come.

Anti-bullet vests, sidearms, and batons that cackled electrically in the hands of two sturdy men. Kuro immediately went for the faces, expecting the worst, but they were covered by a white visor that only had a serial number on the very corner of them.

The men did not ask questions—they grabbed him by the neck and forced him out—that would leave a mark. Resistance was futile. He spotted a labcoat woman behind the security guards, also covered by the same visor. All in all, despite Kuro having no idea where he was, he was feeling at ease for not seeing anything.

Still, he noticed the masked scientist behind the guards, scribbling and observing his behavior. Nerves crawled under his skin as the four of them walked out of the building after a brief, gray hallway. 

The day was cloudy. Droplets fell here and there, never enough to flood the soil. They followed a pavement path towards a larger concrete building with brutalist architecture, resembling an auditorium. Security guards at every exit, armed with rifles, as if to prevent anyone inside from stepping out unauthorized.

All the wards, small to big, shared the same utilitarian design,  as if they had repurposed a military bunker for whatever this was. Kuro was allowed to see it all as they walked towards the auditorium. 

At the gate, the security guards halted and turned Kuro to the scientist woman.

"Vu Hikari," the scientist said, "you're the last entry into the program, and the effects of the serum were still in effect, so your tardiness will be pardoned this one time. However, you will be responsible for attending the gatherings on your own or face punishment."

The scientist nodded, and the security guards shoved him inside.   

The auditorium lights dimmed to a sterile half-glow, leaving the rows of students in a gray sea of uniforms and shaved expectations. It was the first time Kuro realized he had been dressed the same way.

Due to their harsh entrance, Kuro felt the sudden gaze of all the students, security guards, and observing scientists. 

Eyes, crazed ones, engulfed in all-consuming darkness. Kuro saw them again, like at school. Yellow pupils in some, red in others—the completely white ones were unbearable for him. He knew nothing of these people, but he could feel it. He was a disappointment already. 

Kuro felt pushed by the guards towards the now barely visible chairs, right into the ravenous dark. As they did, searing teeth emerged from below the eyes, smiling, bearing their fangs at him. They were ready to consume him for his sins. 

Kuro's feet resisted. His shoulders tensed and pushed back. 

Bad idea, it only prompted more strength from the two men, and he was violently placed on the last row amidst the eyes.

His ears buzzed. He tried to look back, but the sense of being observed forced him to look straight into the eyes. He tried one more time and spotted her: the female scientist. 

She was evidently interested in him, scribbling on her pad.

Tears started to come out, the eyes behind him seemed to creep into his periphery, and the darkness blurred his sight, punishing him for daring to look away. Still, he desperately clung to her image as the encroaching blackness forced him back. 

Then, she noticed. The scientist stopped scribbling and relaxed her hands, tilting her head slowly as if responding to his silent pain.

What is this?  he thought. Why am I here? I was supposed to be with father... 

A loud click in the auditorium stage made the eyes, the darkness, disappear. The scientist looked away, to the front, prompting Kuro to do the same. 

Above them, the massive screen flickered to life with a single symbol: a vertical ladder of white bars on a black field.

No music. No welcome.

Only the hum of the ventilation system.

At the front of the hall stood a tall man behind a narrow lectern. He wore a dark suit so severe it looked almost ceremonial. His hair was silver at the temples, his face concealed by a white visor with an Egyptian dog painted on it. His posture was unnaturally straight, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he surveyed the room.

When he finally stepped forward, the room instinctively fell silent.

“Good morning.”

His voice carried easily through the hall without needing to rise.

“You are now participants in the Ladder Program.”

He let the words settle, his eyes moving slowly across the students as if counting them one by one.

“You were sent here because you are criminals.”

A small pause.

“You were sent here because society no longer trusts you.”

He clasped his hands loosely in front of him and began pacing slowly across the stage, his shoes tapping softly against the polished floor.

“Some of you are here for violence. Some for sabotage. Some for a conduct that suggests… instability.”

His head tilted slightly.

“And some of you are here because you simply failed, time after time, to become what others expected.”

He stopped at the edge of the stage.

Above him, the screen changed. A stark timer appeared:

90 DAYS

“This program lasts exactly ninety days.”

He raised one hand and extended a single finger.

“Ninety days to prove that you can function.”

A second finger.

“Ninety days to prove that you can cooperate.”

A third.

“Ninety days to prove that you deserve to remain with your loved ones, and the nation that raised you.”

He folded his hand again.

“If you succeed, your record will be cleared. Your academic eligibility restored. Universities, careers, opportunities, all returned to you—even with a prestigious recommendation from the government.”

His voice remained calm, almost conversational.

“If you fail…”

The word hung in the air.

Behind him, the screen flickered again. The ladder symbol slowly faded into a black vertical line.

“The state will conclude that rehabilitation is not possible.”

He leaned forward just slightly.

“The Ladder is not designed for failure.”

His eyes swept the room again.

“It is designed for clarity.”

He straightened again, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve with deliberate precision.

“Each of you will be observed. Every class, every test, every interaction.”

A small gesture toward the ceiling cameras.

“Your behavior will be measured. Your reactions evaluated. Your potential determined.”

He paused, then added quietly:

“You will also discover that other students are not your only obstacles.”

The sentence passed like a shadow across the room.

Then the man folded his hands behind his back again.

“My name is Director Anubis. I oversee the Ladder.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a formal introduction.

“You will address me as Director.”

Silence filled the hall again.

Finally, he lifted his hand and pointed once toward the glowing ladder symbol on the screen.

“This is your chance, students. Climb. Reclaim your right, or lose it forever.”

The words landed like a command.

Then he lowered his hand.

With that, he stepped away from the stage, leaving the symbol glowing above the students like a quiet judgment waiting to begin.