PROLOGUE — PART I
Genesis Never Knew the Sky
Akira had never seen the sun. Not because the days were always cloudy.
Nor because he lived somewhere without windows.
Since he first began remembering the world, the sky had existed only in picture books occasionally placed in the playroom. The vast blue expanse, the white clouds drifting slowly, the golden light called the sun—all of it felt like something out of a fairy tale. Something that might be real, but was far too distant to touch.
The only world he knew was a series of long, white corridors. Cold glass walls. Metal doors that opened only when someone outside allowed them to.
And the sound of machines that never truly stopped.
It was always there. Quiet. Steady.
As if Genesis itself were breathing.
“Good morning, Akira.”
That gentle voice woke him.
Akira slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling lights made him squint. His chest felt tight as usual. Whenever he drew too deep a breath, a sharp pain spread all the way to his shoulders.
A woman with light brown hair stood beside his bed, smiling faintly.
“Did you sleep any better last night?” Akira nodded slowly.
He knew the woman would check his temperature even if he answered no. She pressed a small device to his forehead.
“That’s not a bad answer.” Akira watched her face.
The woman was always smiling. But her smile was different from those of the other researchers.
Their smiles felt like part of the job. But this woman’s smile...
Was warm.
“Thank you, Airi.” The woman paused briefly before gently stroking Akira’s hair.
“You’re welcome.” Beyond the glass door, two researchers recorded the examination results without entering the room.
They spoke quietly, but loudly enough to be heard.
“Subject A-001 is stable.” “Resonance remains within the normal range.”
“Schedule an evaluation for this afternoon.” Akira didn’t understand what the word resonance meant.
He only knew that whenever they said it, his body usually started hurting much more.
Footsteps filled the Genesis corridors.
Nurses. Researchers. Doctors.
Everyone moved quickly, carrying tablets, files, or medical equipment.
No one ran. No one spoke loudly.
Everything proceeded with near-perfect order.
As if every second had been planned from the beginning.
Akira walked slowly beside Airi. The small IV stand beside him creaked softly whenever its wheels rolled over a seam in the floor.
“Tired?” Airi asked.
Akira shook his head. Even though both his legs were beginning to feel heavy.
He didn’t want to go back to bed.
Today was the day the playroom opened. That meant... He could see Reina.
The playroom wasn’t very large. A few shelves held books.
Wooden blocks. Drawing paper.
Colored pencils. Everything was arranged with perfect neatness.
Too neat for a place called a playroom.
Near the artificial glass window displaying a digital sky, a little girl sat cross-legged. Her black hair fell to her shoulders.
She was much smaller than other children her age. She was staring at a picture book about birds.
The moment she heard the door open, her face lit up. “Akira!”
Akira gave a small smile. “Hi.”
Reina hurried over to him.
“You came.” “I promised.”
“I thought you were sick.” “I am sick.”
Reina let out a small sigh, then laughed.
“Me too.” Their laughter was quiet.
But it was enough to fill the room that was usually silent.
Airi, standing near the door, watched them without saying a word. Something difficult to explain lay behind her smile.
Hope. And fear.
“What do you think...” Reina opened the picture book. “...can birds really fly this high?”
Akira shrugged. “I’ve never seen one.”
“When we get out someday, let’s find some birds, okay?” Get out.
The words sounded strange.
Akira stared at the digital sky beyond the glass. “What’s it like outside?”
Reina thought for a long time. “Dad once said... the sky is wide.”
“As wide as this room?” “Wider.”
“The east corridor?” “Wider.”
“All of Genesis?”
Reina smiled.
“He said it’s wider than anything.” Akira tried to imagine it.
But his thoughts stopped there.
To him, Genesis already felt endless. How could anything be bigger?
Upstairs, beyond the observation glass, two men watched the children.
Takumi Kisaragi stood with both hands in the pockets of his lab coat. His eyes never left Akira.
“Their bond is growing stronger,” he murmured.
Beside him, Seiji Amamiya read the data appearing across a transparent screen. “Resonance has increased by eight percent.”
“Without stimulation.” Takumi turned toward him.
“Because they trust each other.” Seiji nodded slowly.
“And that proves my hypothesis.” Takumi sighed. “Or it proves they’re just two children who need a friend.”
Several seconds passed without an answer.
At last, Seiji closed the data screen. “Takumi.”
“You still believe in Genesis’s original purpose, don’t you?” “Of course.”
“We want to save humanity.” “Yes.”
“Then what difference does it make if, to save millions of lives, we have to sacrifice a few?”
Takumi didn’t answer immediately. He looked back at Akira, who was helping Reina stack wooden blocks into a small tower.
The boy laughed softly when the tower collapsed. A simple laugh. A laugh that should never have been counted as a research variable.
“There’s a big difference,” Takumi said at last.
“They’re not numbers.” “They’re children.”
Seiji looked down as well. His expression remained calm.
“I know.” “That’s precisely because I know... that I want them to become the first generation to change the future.”
That afternoon...
The observation room became an examination room. Akira sat on the bed, biting his lip.
One researcher attached electrodes to his temples. Another prepared a syringe.
Airi stood beside him, reading the procedure with slightly trembling hands.
“Begin synchronization,” someone ordered.
The needle slowly pierced his skin. Akira closed his eyes.
His body tensed. His chest felt like it was burning.
The machines began to beep faster.
Beep...
Beep...
Beep...
His breathing grew ragged.
His small hands gripped the bedsheet until his knuckles turned white.
“Akira.” Airi’s voice was soft. “Look at me.”
Akira opened his eyes with difficulty. Their gazes met.
“I’m here.” The pain didn’t disappear.
But somehow...
He no longer felt alone.
In another room... Reina was undergoing the same examination.
But this time...
Her screams could be heard all the way down the corridor. Airi instinctively turned toward the door.
Her face went pale. “That’s... Reina...”
She was about to step outside.
“Doctor Airi.” A researcher stopped her.
“The procedure isn’t finished.” Her screams rang out again.
Quieter this time. As if the little girl’s strength were beginning to run out.
Airi squeezed the folder in her hands so tightly that the edges of the papers inside folded over.
Not far away, Takumi stood frozen.
Seiji, meanwhile, continued staring at the monitor displaying the resonance graph. There was no satisfaction in his eyes.
Nor regret. Only conviction.
A conviction so powerful that even the sound of a child crying couldn’t shake it.
But for the first time...
A question arose in Airi Amamiya’s heart—one she could no longer ignore. If this research really was meant to save humanity...
Why did those children have to keep crying? The question remained unspoken.
But from that afternoon on... Genesis, the place she had been so proud of, began to feel like somewhere unfamiliar.
And unbeknownst to everyone, the seed of a decision had taken root. A decision that would one day change the fates of Akira, Reina, and the entire Genesis project forever.