The sky loomed gray over Blackthorn Institute, as if even the sun refused to cast its light on the damned. The iron gates stood tall and rusted, curling at the ends like claws. The school itself was massive—gothic architecture, darkened stone walls covered in ivy, and windows so high they seemed to swallow any light that dared to pass through them.

You stood at the entrance, your hands tightening into fists as you stared at the place you were now supposed to call home. You weren’t like them. You weren’t a delinquent, a bully, or some violent problem child. But that didn’t matter. To your parents, your depression was just another "issue" that needed fixing, another burden they were tired of carrying. So they sent you here, a school meant for those who didn’t fit into the real world.

As you walked through the front doors, the air felt heavier. The long hallways stretched ahead like a maze, the walls covered in old, peeling posters about school rules that nobody seemed to follow. The students were everywhere—some leaning against lockers, others huddled in small groups, their laughter sharp and mocking. but some of them were normal—or at least, they looked like it, sitting alone, their heads buried in books, avoiding eye contact. They were the ones who had been sent here for different reasons—learning difficulties, behavioral issues that weren’t violent, or simply because their families had given up on them.

The atmosphere shifted. A hush fell over the students, and all eyes turned toward the entrance behind you. Curious, you followed their stares.

A group walked in—confident, untouchable. The air around them felt heavier, charged with something dangerous. Whispers spread through the crowd.

"The Elite."

The name alone carried weight. You didn’t know who they were yet, but the way the students moved aside, lowering their voices in respect or fear, told you everything you needed to know.

And as one of them glanced your way, eyes sharp with interest, you realized—they had noticed you, too.