The classroom smelled wrong.
Not like paper or chalk or dust.
It smelled like carbon fiber, machine oil, and something sharper beneath it—fear, tightly contained. The kind that didn't scream, but waited.
Kai Hayato sat near the back, arms crossed, posture still.
He counted without trying.
Twenty-four students.
No order.
No grouping.
No logic.
A street racer with calloused hands sat beside a karting prodigy whose helmet probably cost more than Kai's entire racing history. A boy wearing a sponsor jacket leaned back confidently, while the girl beside him stared straight ahead like she'd already accepted failure.
Randomized.
Not careless—deliberate.
APEX didn't want comfort.
It wanted friction.
The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Conversation died instantly.
A man stepped in.
Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. His hands were scarred—burns, nicks, the kind you didn't get from training sims. His posture wasn't academic. It was aggressive, economical. Like someone who still thought in braking points and apexes.
He didn't introduce himself right away.
He walked to the desk and threw a data tablet onto it. The sound cracked through the room like a dropped gun.
"I'm Shin Kanzaki," he said flatly. "Former Formula 2 driver."
A few heads snapped up.
"Current homeroom instructor."
That last part landed colder.
"From today onward," Kanzaki continued, eyes sweeping the room, "I decide whether you improve…"
A pause.
"…or disappear."
No theatrics.
No raised voice.
Just certainty.
Kai felt a subtle tightening in his chest.
Kanzaki activated the wall behind him. The lights dimmed as a massive hologram ignited—APEX Academy, viewed from above. Three race circuits spiraled around the campus like predators coiled and waiting.
"Listen carefully," Kanzaki said. "Because most of you won't be here long enough to hear this twice."
He pointed at the projection.
"APEX Academy operates on a weekly execution system."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Kai leaned forward slightly.
"Every Friday to Sunday," Kanzaki continued, "you will participate in the Weekend Race Program."
The words race program felt deceptively clean.
"These are not exhibitions. Not practice sessions. Not training."
His eyes hardened.
"They are judgment."
The screen shifted.
Rankings appeared. Names. Percentages. A red zone pulsed at the bottom.
Then—names flickered out.
Erased.
"After every weekend race," Kanzaki said calmly, "the five slowest drivers across the academy are expelled."
The room fractured.
Sharp inhales. Someone cursed under their breath.
"Five… every week?" a student whispered.
Kanzaki nodded once.
"No appeals. No second chances. No mercy disguised as 'potential.'"
He tapped the display again.
"Speed decides survival."
Kai's heartbeat accelerated.
This wasn't a ladder.
This was a trapdoor.
"You have until this Friday," Kanzaki said, "to prepare."
Prepare how?
The answer came instantly.
"You will select your primary vehicle. Your assigned mechanic team. Your training focus."
The hologram split—Cars. Mechanics. Circuits.
Options branched endlessly.
"APEX has three full-scale racing fields," Kanzaki said. "High-speed. Technical. Mixed conditions."
"You may use any of them."
Another pause.
"Any time."
A few students straightened, hope flashing briefly—
Then Kanzaki crushed it.
"But don't misunderstand."
He leaned forward, palms pressing into the desk.
"No one will guide you."
Silence thickened.
"No personal coaching. No corrections. No safety net."
His voice dropped lower.
"The system doesn't care how hard you try."
The screen shifted—raw telemetry, cold numbers scrolling endlessly.
"It only records results."
A student near the front raised a shaky hand.
"Sir… what if we choose wrong?"
Kanzaki's mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
"Then you learn."
He waited.
"…Or you die here."
The room went still.
Another student swallowed audibly.
Kanzaki straightened.
"One more thing."
The display changed again—currency values, locked icons, privilege tiers.
"Everything at APEX," Kanzaki said, "is bought with ranking."
Food quality. Clothing. Equipment upgrades. Simulator access. Private track time.
"All of it," he continued, "is performance-locked."
He looked around the room slowly.
"If you're slow, you eat worse. Train less. Sleep worse."
His gaze lingered—just for a fraction of a second—on Kai.
"And if you're desperate enough," Kanzaki added, "you'll start cutting corners."
A warning.
Or a temptation.
"You are racers," he finished. "Not students."
The lights dimmed.
"Class dismissed."
The doors slid open.
And just like that—
The countdown began.
---
Dormitories – That Night
Kai stood in the center of his room.
Private.
Minimalist.
Cold.
One bed. One desk. One locker. One wall-sized screen glowing softly.
Current Rank: 97th
He let out a slow breath.
Everything here was efficient.
Everything here was expensive.
Everything here assumed you already belonged.
Kai sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling, counting his breaths.
Friday.
Three days.
He didn't know how to choose a car.
Didn't know how to judge mechanics.
Didn't know the politics, the shortcuts, the traps.
But he knew this—
If he stayed still—
He was already dead.
Kai clenched his fists.
"…So this is how you kill people," he muttered.
Not with crashes.
Not with flames.
With pressure.
Outside his window, engines roared—somewhere on the track, someone was already pushing limits.
Predators didn't wait.
Kai stood.
If APEX was a hunt—
Then he'd have to stop being prey.