The elevator area was on the north side of the first-floor atrium.
The atrium rose high overhead.
Looking up, it opened into a vertical expanse.
A glass dome compressed the sky into a flat, transparent plane.
The morning light leaned cold.
It fell from above.
Steel structures crossed horizontally.
Straight.
Rigid.
Light was cut into precise geometric shapes.
Falling onto the floor.
Cold white met pale gray—
as if measured exactly.
The air was clear,
yet carried a lingering trace of early-morning chill.
Four elevators stood side by side.
Aligned perfectly.
Evenly spaced.
Their frames were edged with silver-gray metal.
Sharp finishes.
When light slid across,
a thin line of brightness formed.
Above them, labels marked grade divisions.
Leftmost: Year 2–3.
Second from left: Year 4.
Second from right: Year 5.
Rightmost: Year 6 · Faculty.
Numbers in cold white.
Minimal font.
No decoration.
No borders.
No explanation.
No extra instruction.
As if standing here—
you already understood the rules.
One floor per grade.
Simple structure.
Clear separation.
Everyone knew where to stand.
The lines were never wrong.
—
For the past few days, Seven had been attending night training.
It ended late.
He returned to the dorm as the sky began to pale.
Corridor lights shut off behind him, one by one.
During the day, he was almost never seen.
—
When Ros arrived at the elevator area,
it was just before the first class of the morning.
Time approached the hour.
The digital clock flickered on the wall,
but the crowd had not yet formed.
Not many people.
Sparse lines in front of the Year 2–3 elevators.
Zippers brushed.
Soles dragged lightly.
Voices lowered.
Occasionally, the faint scrape of a slipping backpack strap.
At the Year 4 side, small groups lingered.
Some leaned against the wall, looking down at terminals.
Screen reflections passed across their faces.
Some tapped their knuckles unconsciously.
Short, sharp rhythm.
The Year 5 elevator stood empty.
The metal doors waited in silence.
The Year 6 · Faculty side was even quieter.
Almost no one stood there.
Like a naturally empty space—
a line no one wanted to cross.
Ros's gaze swept across the row of doors.
The metal reflected her figure.
Stretched.
Distorted.
Like a faint ripple on water.
She had come in a hurry.
Her breathing had not fully steadied.
Her shoulders rose slightly.
Strands of hair clung to the side of her face.
She hadn't seen Seven for days.
No notice.
Not even at the cafeteria.
Laboratory building. Dormitory. Cafeteria.
Nowhere.
As if time had taken him away.
She stood still for a few seconds.
Her breathing gradually slowed.
Then she moved to the right.
Her footsteps echoed clearly against the polished floor.
She pressed the second button on the right.
Her fingertip touched the surface.
Cold.
Metal.
The button lit up.
A steady white ring.
A few seconds later, the doors slid open.
The track made almost no sound.
No chime.
Only the faint displacement of air.
She didn't look up at the floor label.
She only saw the door open.
She stepped inside.
The doors closed.
At the moment they sealed, outside sound was cut off.
Like the air itself had been separated.
The hum of the motor came from beneath her feet.
The air inside was colder.
Not like air conditioning—
more like the natural temperature of enclosed metal.
There was only one other person inside.
Standing slightly to the right of center.
Tall.
Uniform precise.
No wrinkles at the hem.
Collar fitted.
Buttons fastened to the top.
No grade armband.
Clean sleeve lines.
Yet without looking closely,
it was obvious—
sixth year.
There was a certain stability to sixth-year posture.
No leaning.
No shifting weight.
Feet fixed.
Shoulders level.
As if accustomed to being observed.
Ros's gaze paused the moment the doors shut.
She realized the space was smaller than expected.
Two people.
No third presence.
The air was quiet enough
to hear the vibration inside the motor.
She looked up.
The number lit.
Light reflected off the metal panels.
Then shifted.
The change was distinct.
Not gradual—
an instant switch.
No transition.
She realized something was wrong.
The Year 5 elevator would not pass the sixth floor.
Only the Year 6 · Faculty elevator went straight to the top.
The air suddenly felt quieter.
As if pressed down.
She did not move.
Her back lightly touched the metal door.
Cold seeped through her uniform.
The other person turned slightly.
A small movement.
Just a glance.
No clear action.
The gaze was steady.
No inquiry.
No excess emotion.
It felt like confirming data.
Not curiosity.
Not scrutiny.
More like—reading.
It stayed for one second.
Then moved away.
The elevator continued upward.
A soft tremor from the motor.
Steel cables in motion.
No stop.
Ros's throat felt dry.
Her breathing grew shallow.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her bag strap.
Knuckles pale.
She said nothing.
No explanation.
The air felt fixed.
Until the number reached 4.
The light shifted again.
She spoke softly.
"Excuse me."
Her tone restrained.
No tremor.
Her voice was light,
barely echoing against the metal walls.
The other person did not respond.
Not even a glance.
Eyes remained forward.
As if nothing had been heard.
The elevator paused slightly.
A brief confirmation.
The doors opened.
The track sound was clean.
Corridor light poured in.
Cold white.
Air rushed in instantly.
Temperature shifted.
Ros stepped out.
Her pace half a beat faster than usual.
Her footsteps sounded unusually clear.
She did not turn back.
Her shoulders were tight.
The doors closed behind her.
At the moment they sealed,
the air split again.
She could feel it—
that gaze still there.
As if it had not disappeared.
Pressed against her back.
The elevator continued upward.
Before the gap fully closed,
the number shifted to 6.
Then vanished.
—
The fifth-floor corridor was quieter than the first.
The floor polished.
Faint reflections.
Walls clean.
No excess notices.
Windows half open.
Wind poured in from outside.
Cool.
Warmer than the elevator.
There were fewer fifth-year students.
Footsteps evenly spaced.
Sparse.
As if deliberately softened.
Some paused briefly when passing her.
Their gaze lingered for half a second.
Then moved on.
No questions.
No words.
Ros walked toward Class 1 of Year Five.
At the end of the corridor,
the doorway cast a sharp right-angled shadow.
Her steps had returned to normal.
Her breathing steadied.
But that thin layer of cold remained on her back.
Like lingering metal.
Someone looked at her.
A brief pause of attention.
Not hostility.
More like identification.
"Oh… the one from the same orphanage as Seven."
A low murmur.
Drawn-out tone.
Not concealed.
The voice wasn't lowered on purpose.
As if meant for her to hear.
Ros did not stop.
Jawline tight.
Eyes fixed forward.
She reached the door.
The classroom was half open.
Inside air carried chalk dust.
Quieter than the corridor.
Someone about to enter saw her.
Paused slightly.
"Looking for Seven?"
Casual tone.
No smile.
Then called inside:
"Seven! Someone's here!"
The voice spread through the classroom.
Hit the walls.
Came back.
Chairs shifted slightly.
Paper rustled.
Some looked up.
A few seconds later—
Seven walked out.
Sleeves rolled up.
Forearms exposed.
Defined lines.
Pale skin.
Expression normal.
No fatigue.
Eyes clear.
No excess emotion.
"Oh, Ros. What's up?"
Natural tone.
Like a normal greeting.
Neither loud nor soft.
Ros looked at him.
Not far.
Yet it felt—
as if separated by a thin membrane.
Something invisible in the air.
"You haven't been around these past few days. Did something happen?"
Her voice was steadier than in the elevator.
No tightness at the end.
Seven glanced at the time.
A short motion.
His gaze moved from her face
to the corridor clock.
The second hand moved.
"Nothing. Night training lately."
Light tone.
No detail.
No elaboration.
"We'll talk at noon. Class is starting."
As he spoke, his gaze was already shifting away.
His weight leaned back.
The bell rang.
Electronic tones filled the corridor.
Short echoes.
Seven turned back into the classroom.
No pause.
Steady steps.
The door closed.
Sound cut off.
Wooden panel sealing.
Only the wind remained in the corridor.
Ros stood outside for a few seconds.
She looked at the door.
Her gaze stayed.
Her fingers tightened slightly—then loosened.
Breath lengthened.
Then she turned and left.
The corridor light remained unchanged.
Wind still flowed through the windows.
The window frame trembled faintly.
From afar, the elevator gave a soft chime.
Ding.
Crisp.
Unclear which floor.
Ros paused for a moment.
Her heart gave a light beat in her chest.
Faint—
but clear.
She did not turn back.
She continued forward.
Her footsteps gradually faded.
The corridor returned to its original rhythm.
Light unchanged.
Air quiet.