The brackets dropped without warning.
Every screen in the waiting hall refreshed at the same time, names rearranging themselves into neat columns of conflict. Cheers erupted from one side of the room. Groans from another.
I watched quietly.
Team Arata landed on the upper bracket. No surprise. They were seeded high—clean records, flashy finishes, media-friendly styles.
Our name appeared lower.
No commentary. No applause.
Just a slot.
Sora leaned closer to the screen. "We're fighting an independent group first."
"Good," I said.
She blinked. "Good?"
"Teams hide behind coordination. Individuals show their habits."
She didn't argue.
Across the room, people were already sizing each other up. Some stared too long. Some avoided eye contact completely. Everyone was calculating odds, imagining victory speeches, pretending they weren't afraid of getting exposed.
That's what this competition really was.
Exposure.
A tall man in a staff jacket walked through the hall, voice amplified. "Matches begin in thirty minutes. All participants report to assigned preparation zones."
Movement rippled through the room.
As we stood, I felt it again.
That pressure.
Not killing intent. Not hostility.
Attention.
I glanced sideways.
Ren stood near the railing above the floor, arms folded, watching the crowd instead of the screens. When his eyes met mine, he gave a small nod—like we shared a joke no one else heard.
I looked away first.
Sora noticed. "You know him?"
"No."
She studied my face longer than necessary. "You lie badly."
"I don't bother lying well."
Our preparation zone was quiet. Too quiet. No chants. No strategizing speeches. Just equipment checks and staff doing their jobs.
I sat down and closed my eyes.
I didn't visualize winning.
I didn't imagine glory.
I simply waited.
Because sooner or later, someone always tried to force me to care.
And that was when things got ugly.