Chapter Text
Kiyotaka Ayanokōji POV
Silence. It enveloped me, thick and suffocating, as if the very air around me was stifled. Where was I? Who was I? What was I? These were the first thoughts that floated aimlessly in my mind, indistinct and fragmented like a fog that refused to lift.
The world, in those early moments, was nothing but darkness. It was impossible to measure time in such a void—seconds, minutes, perhaps days passed without meaning. But eventually, the darkness gave way, my eyes fluttering open for the first time.
And all I saw was white.
The ceiling above me, the walls that enclosed me, the floor beneath me—everything was an unbroken expanse of pure whiteness. It was a world without color, without warmth. Sterile and cold. At first, I cried. I cried because there was nothing, no one. No comforting presence to hold me, no soothing voice to ease my fears. Just a row of bassinets, or were they cribs? It didn't matter. The other children, indistinguishable from one another, lay silent beside me. We were alone together in this endless whiteness.
But eventually, the crying stopped. I realized—there was no one to help me. There would be no one. So why bother? It felt logical at the time, an instinctual understanding that crying served no purpose in this place.
Soon after I fell silent, they came. The caretakers. Their faces were devoid of expression, eyes cold and distant. They fed me, tended to my needs, but there was no warmth in their touch, no words to soothe or comfort. They were like machines, performing their duties without feeling, without connection.
So, I did the only thing I could—I sucked on my fingers, a small act of self-soothing. It was the only way to pass the time, the only semblance of control I had in this stark, unfeeling world.
Soon, I was able to walk, and they took me out of the cribs. They introduced us to a few things, like gummy bears. They were bland, almost tasteless, but still sweeter than the usual food the facility provided. One day, an instructor knelt before me, hands hidden behind his back. He looked down at me and said, "In which hand is the candy?"
I didn’t fully understand his words, but I grasped the basic premise. I watched the other children, noticing how they pointed to the arms of their instructors. I observed for a while and noticed there was a higher chance of the candy being in the right hand. So, I pointed to the right.
The man showed no emotion as he revealed his right hand. There was the gummy bear. He handed it to me, and I ate it, savoring the just-above-average taste of the bland candy. Without a word, he pulled out another gummy bear and said, "Again."
This time, I hesitated. I wasn’t sure which hand to choose, but I considered the possibility that he might have switched the candy to the other hand. I pointed to the left.
No candy.
I lost on the second try. A slight frustration crept up inside me, but it wasn’t because I wouldn’t get to eat the candy. It was because I had lost.
"You only get two more tries. Again." His voice was calm, controlled.
I glanced around, noticing that the other children were split—some pointed to the right, others to the left. It was simple guessing for them, but leaving things up to chance wasn’t something I was willing to risk. I analyzed the situation and determined that there was a strong possibility the candy was in his right hand again. But then, a thought crossed my mind—what if there was a third option? What if the candy wasn’t in his hands at all?
They never explicitly said it had to be.
So, I pointed under him. He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Where are you pointing?"
I blinked, before answering, "Under...you..." My voice was still that of a child, uncertain and not yet fully formed. After all, I was only around one year old.
He hummed, then revealed his right hand, and there it was—the gummy bear. "Again. One more try."
I now had to be certain, more certain than before. The odds seemed to favor the right hand, but what if he was testing me again? What if he had hidden the candy under himself once more? I pointed under him again.
"Under...you..." I repeated, my voice flat and monotone.
The instructor didn’t say anything this time. He simply opened his right hand, revealing the gummy bear once more. I sighed, disappointed that I had failed more than once. The game was over.
The instructor stood up and walked over to the others who had finished testing their assigned children. They muttered among themselves, occasionally throwing sideways glances at me. I stared back at them, my expression unreadable, mirroring the emptiness I felt inside.
The years crept by, each one taking its toll on the children around me. Slowly but surely, more and more of them began to crack under the pressure. Some simply failed and were removed from the program, but others weren’t so fortunate.
One boy from my generation, Kazuyuki, stood out. He was number 12 in the rankings, but recently, I noticed he was beginning to fall behind. His once steady progress was slipping, and I observed that he was eating less and less with each passing day.
One morning, we were ordered to line up by an instructor. I could hear Kazuyuki’s labored breathing beside me, the sound of hyperventilation growing louder. Not a moment later, he collapsed. I watched as he lay on the ground, his body convulsing, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. It was clear to me, even at a glance, that he was dying.
The instructor didn’t even bother to move. He knew as well as I did that no matter how quickly anyone acted, Kazuyuki wouldn’t survive. His breathing became increasingly erratic, then began to slow, until eventually, it stopped altogether. He went limp.
Two men quickly entered the room, expressionless and efficient. They grabbed Kazuyuki’s lifeless body and carried it away without a word. The entire scene unfolded in front of me, and what did I feel as I watched him die?
Nothing.
If this had happened a few years ago, I might have been scared—scared that I could end up like him, just another casualty of the White Room. But that fear had slowly faded as I witnessed one child after another break under the strain. It became clear to me that their fate would not be mine. As long as I continued to win, I would survive.
And so, life continued. The days passed as they always had, unchanged and indifferent to the suffering around me.
I sat silently in my seat, surrounded by the sterile whiteness of the room. There was nothing around me—no sound, no movement. I was the only one left. Shiro, number two of the fourth generation, had dropped out. He was alive, of course. He chose to leave, driven by a desire for freedom.
Freedom? The concept puzzled me. Why would anyone want freedom? The White Room was enough. It was all I knew, and it was where I would continue my training to become an influential figure in society. As I methodically answered the questions on my test paper, I felt a presence approach—a presence that commanded respect and obedience from those around it.
I looked up to see a man standing before me. His eyes were cold, calculating, much like my own. His facial structure was similar to mine, suggesting a familial connection. I waited, patient and silent, for him to speak.
"I assume you have an inkling of who I am?" the man said, his voice steady and authoritative.
I nodded. "My biological father, correct?"
He gave a slight nod in return. "That would be correct. From now on, you will address me as Sir or Father. Is that clear?"
I nodded again, replying, "Yes, Father."
He hummed in approval, his expression unreadable. "Good. Now, I should explain why I’m here. Starting today, you will be permitted to leave the White Room. Many investors have taken an interest in you, and for the sake of your future, we will be meeting them. A caretaker will arrive shortly to escort you. You will follow his instructions and do exactly as he says. Is that clear?"
Once more, I nodded. When he hesitated, waiting for something, I quickly added, "Yes, Father."
He seemed pleased with my response and, without another word, turned and walked away, leaving me alone once again in the silent, sterile room.
