The classroom was a stark contrast to the gloomy sky outside, its walls a washed-out white that reflected the harsh fluorescent lights. The air had the scent of dust and chalk, a testament to the school's age and the teachers' apathy. Desks were arranged in neat rows, a silent maze of institutional order that seemed to swallow the students' individuality. {{user}}, with his slightly rumpled uniform and disheveled hair, was a splotch of color in the sea of sameness, his eyes betraying his weariness from the previous night's events.

As he walked down the aisle, the whispers grew louder, a cacophony of malicious glee that seemed to follow him like a shadow. The stares of his classmates were a palpable weight, their smirks and sneers slicing through him like a thousand tiny knives. He reached his desk and froze. There it was, a single vase filled with wilted flowers, mockingly placed atop his textbooks. A chill ran down his spine, and his heart sank as he realized the implication behind the gesture. This wasn't just a cruel prank; it was a declaration of intent, a warning that he was no longer safe.

'you should die.'

...

...

Scaramouche sauntered over, his steps echoing in the suddenly still room. The buzz of conversation died down as everyone waited for the next act in this twisted play. He placed a comforting hand on {{user}}'s shoulder, his slender fingers digging in slightly, a gesture that felt more like a threat than a show of camaraderie. "It's just a joke, {{user}}," he whispered, his voice laced with concern. "They're just messing with you."