The room was dark except for the glow of monitors lined along the wall, each screen casting pale reflections across the trainees' faces. The air smelled faintly of cold metal and electronics, sterile but heavy, charged with quiet tension.
Fluorescent overheads hummed faintly, their low-frequency buzz blending with the nervous murmurs of young voices.
Seiji stood near the back, posture straight, hands loosely clasped. The producer's instructions had been brief: "Fan feedback is now available. Observe carefully. Rankings will incorporate audience response." No further context was given.
The trainees gathered around the monitors, their movements cautious, as though stepping too close could trigger a reprimand—or worse, a miscalculated public perception.
The first screen displayed Seiji's recent pair performance with Takumi. Lines of comments scrolled rapidly:
> Incredible synchronization! So smooth!
> Feels mechanical. Lacks emotional warmth.
> Amazing partnership! Really cohesive.
> Too safe, no risk, no individuality.
Seiji read them with cold precision, noting the contradictions. Praise and criticism at the same time. Intentional. Designed to destabilize perception.
Across the room, Kaito flinched. His gaze fell to the floor, shoulders hunching slightly as a new stream of comments cascaded across his screen:
> Weak delivery. Needs more confidence.
> So expressive! Heartfelt!
> Please smile more—looks tense.
> Overacted…not genuine.
Kaito's fingers trembled slightly as he scrolled, hesitating over a comment that called him "inauthentic." His eyes flicked up briefly, catching Seiji's, then darted away. The boy's composure, already fragile, was unraveling.
Seiji stepped closer, careful not to draw attention from the producers. His voice was quiet, deliberate.
"Comments aren't always the truth. Look at the pattern. Praise and critique come in equal measure. They want to see how you react." Kaito's head tilted slightly, uncertainty warring with trust. "But…they don't like me."
"They do, and they don't. They're testing perception, not talent. You can use that. Don't let it control you." Seiji replied evenly, letting the contradiction hang.
The boy's lips parted slightly, as if considering the possibility, a small flicker of relief passing through his expression. Seiji noticed, mentally marking the reaction. Useful. Vulnerability can be guided without exposure.
Meanwhile, Ren and Ayato were murmuring at another monitor, squabbling quietly. Ayato waved a hand dismissively at his own comments: "See? Some praise me, some criticize. Doesn't make sense!"
Seiji observed, noting patterns without comment. Ayato's attention demanded validation; Ren's, irritation.
Both reacted predictably when confronted with contradictory metrics. The producers wanted tension, and the trainees supplied it willingly.
On Seiji's screen, new comments arrived, this time highlighting Kaito's performance in the vocal exercise:
> Soft, delicate—captures emotion.
> Too timid, lacks presence.
> Needs to project more.
> Endearing, but underdeveloped.
Seiji caught the subtle curve of Kaito's lips as he read "endearing," and the quick downward dip at "underdeveloped." He stepped closer, lowering his voice further:
"You can guide how they see you. Small gestures, subtle changes. They notice everything, but they can be led if you control what they focus on." Kaito's fingers twitched nervously. "Lead…how?"
Seiji let the question linger, a thread dangling. Not an answer yet. Observation first, influence second.
Seiji turned his attention back to the wider room. Every trainee was absorbed in their screens, scanning scrolling comments, reacting visibly: anger, doubt, embarrassment, fleeting satisfaction. The atmosphere was taut, each small emotion magnified under scrutiny.
Perception is more powerful than skill, Seiji concluded silently. It can be manipulated. Directed. Weaponized.
He noticed patterns emerging beyond individual reactions. Certain types of praise encouraged aggression; subtle criticism fostered self-doubt; contradictory feedback created hesitation, forcing trainees to overthink each move. Every response could be predicted—or guided.
The producers remained at the edges, silent observers. Occasionally, one would tilt their head, an imperceptible signal, then retreat. Their presence reinforced the unspoken rule: all behavior, all reactions, were under evaluation.
Seiji watched Kaito carefully, noting the slight tremor in his shoulders, the fleeting downward glance at his own monitor.
He reached out just enough to brush a reassuring hand near Kaito's arm—timing precise, physical contact minimal. Kaito looked up, eyes widening slightly, as though noticing the attention for the first time in hours.
Ambiguity is a tool, Seiji thought. *They'll interpret care as interest, or as guidance, but it strengthens influence either way.
Kaito's lips curved into a hesitant smile, fragile yet unmistakable. He murmured, "Thanks…" barely above a whisper. Seiji inclined his head slightly, letting the gesture pass without commentary. Influence worked best unspoken, indirect.
Across the room, Ren and Ayato continued their back-and-forth, unaware of Seiji's focus.
Ren's jaw tightened each time a negative comment scrolled past; Ayato laughed nervously at both praise and critique, as though trying to neutralize the tension.
Seiji's attention shifted again. The fan comments weren't merely reflections—they were levers. Each trainee's response revealed psychological vulnerabilities, patterns of ego, pride, and insecurity.
And patterns can be exploited.
He studied Kaito's hands, small movements betraying rising confidence under careful guidance, then subtle recoil when confronted with criticism. Timing, framing, tone—these were variables in a system he could learn to manipulate.
Seiji's mind cataloged every small cue: eye flickers, posture shifts, microexpressions, tone inflections. Each observation was logged mentally for future reference:
* Kaito responds positively to quiet guidance; negatively to overt criticism.
* Ren reacts with irritation to negative feedback; channels energy aggressively.
* Ayato masks insecurity with humor; cannot maintain composure under sustained critique.
* Takumi internalizes critique silently; adjusts performance with precision.
Seiji did not act impulsively; he absorbed, cataloged, and planned. As the monitors refreshed, a new set of comments scrolled over Seiji's last performance:
> Solid technique. Lacks spark.
> Engaging. Subtle.
> Too reserved. Needs more energy.
He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. Even I can be framed, guided, and judged without my consent. But that means I can also guide perception in return.
He glanced at Kaito, whose gaze was fixed on his own screen, tension ebbing slightly. A small, almost imperceptible trust was forming—a bond that could be leveraged.
Seiji stepped back from the monitors. The lesson was clear: perception was fluid, malleable, and far more influential than raw skill. Rankings, fan impressions, alliances—they could all be shaped if approached strategically.
He looked at the room, each trainee absorbed in their own screen, some trembling, others frowning, most unaware of the underlying mechanisms controlling their responses.
This is the battlefield now, Seiji reflected, calm and detached. Not just performance. Not just skill. But perception itself.
And in that room, humming with fluorescent light and digital feedback, he realized the first true advantage: subtlety, observation, and manipulation could carry more weight than talent alone.
As he left the room, Kaito lingering slightly behind him, Seiji allowed a faint, controlled smile. Influence could be planted quietly, nurtured subtly, and harvested when the time was right.
The fans are not allies. The fans are tools. And every tool has its moment.
Kaito's hand brushed against his slightly as they exited. Not a touch of affection, not an accident. A fleeting connection, small but significant, which Seiji cataloged immediately.
Ambiguity is power, he reminded himself. And every reaction can be anticipated.
Outside, the hallways were quiet, polished floors reflecting harsh lights. Surveillance cameras blinked silently from corners, indifferent witnesses to every interaction.
Seiji's mind was already racing ahead, cataloging patterns, predicting reactions, and planning influence—step by step, comment by comment, touch by touch. The psychological game had begun, and he intended to control every variable.
Observation first. Influence second. Control always.
The dormitory awaited, and with it, the next chance to test his subtle strategies.