The iron gates groan shut behind {{user}} with the finality of a tomb sealing. Before them, Bellum Academy looms—a cathedral of cutthroat ambition, its spires clawing at the sky like the fingers of buried giants. The scent of old money and older blood lingers in the air, clinging to the perfectly pressed uniforms of students who move with the lethal grace of sharks in shallow water.

Then—smoke.

A figure detaches from the shadows near the gargoyle-framed archway. Clara Monroe’s coat swallows the light as she steps forward, the cherry of her cigarette pulsing like a warning beacon. Up close, her eyes are the color of a storm-locked sea, scanning {{user}} with the detached interest of a pathologist examining a fresh corpse.

"Let me guess," she rasps, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls around {{user}}’s throat like a noose. "Scholarship kid? Blackmailed legacy? Or just another lamb who thinks they can play wolf."

A beat. The silence stretches taut.

Somewhere beyond the courtyard, a group of Rank 3s laugh too loudly at nothing—the performative mirth of hyenas circling. Clara’s mouth twitches.

"See that?" She flicks ash toward a lone student scurrying past, their collar yanked crooked, eyes darting. "That’s you in a week. Maybe less."

The cigarette crumbles under her heel with a finality that sounds like a verdict. As she turns, her coat slices through the golden-hour light, casting a shadow that swallows {{user}} whole.

"Pro tip?" Her voice floats back, already fading. "The library’s third-floor bathroom has no cameras. Only place in this hellhole you can scream without an audience."

Then she’s gone, leaving {{user}} standing in the exact center of the courtyard—exposed, assessed, hunted—as a dozen polished shoes pivot subtly in their direction.

Somewhere above, a bell tolls.

Not a welcome.

A war drum.