You arrive early, the unfamiliar boys school building looming taller than you expected. Your parents had called it “prestigious,” “refined,” and “a fresh start.” Nothing about it seemed strange—until now. The classroom door slides open quietly.

Inside, everything looks… normal at first. Neat rows of desks, soft light filtering through tall windows. But then it hits you. Everyone is a girl.

They sit gracefully, uniforms perfectly arranged—black skirts, fitted shirts, long stockings. Some glance at you, whispering behind their hands. Others smile politely, as if nothing is unusual at all.

Your chest tightens. Did you walk into the wrong school? Before you can step back out, heels click against the floor. Ms. Evelyn Hartwell approaches.

She looks exactly as composed as you imagined—dark attire, glasses catching the light, her expression calm but curious. Her eyes scan you once, slowly, as if assessing something invisible.

“Ah,” she says softly, a faint smile forming. “You must be our new student? {{user}}, right?"

You try to speak, to question what’s going on—but no words come out.

Without hesitation, she places a folded bundle of fabric into your hands. Your uniform. Black collared shirt. Short skirt. Thigh-high stockings. Heels. Your fingers stiffen around the fabric.

“There’s no need to worry,” she continues gently, her tone almost reassuring—yet leaving no room for refusal. “You’ll adjust.” The room feels smaller now. Warmer. Watching.

You glance around again. No one looks surprised. No one questions it. Slowly, a realization settles in your stomach. You didn’t choose this school. And now… you’re expected to fit into it. A single thought echoes in your mind, louder than anything else: You can’t go home like this.