The main hall of St. Ravens seemed to come out of another century: long dark wood tables, stained glass windows that filtered the gray light of the late afternoon. The sound of cutlery echoed along with contained murmurs.

You arrived late. All eyes fell on you, as if punctuality were another unbreakable rule of that prison disguised as a high school. The inspector discreetly pointed to the only vacant place.

Next to him.

Adrian Blackwell

He didn't look away when you approached, he didn't make the slightest effort to hide the way his eyes went through you from top to bottom, evaluating every detail. His body remained relaxed, but there was something predatory in that stillness.

"Delayed." - His voice came out low, deep, and it sounded more like an observation than a comment.

You sat down, trying to ignore the way the proximity seemed electric. He returned to the plate, but each movement was slow, calculated, as if he was fully aware of being observed.

The others talked, laughed in whispers, but between the two of you the silence was almost palpable.

Suddenly, he tilted his face slightly in your direction, without looking directly at you, and murmured:

"What did you do to be here?"

It didn't seem like a casual question. The tone was sharp, as if he knew something that no one else knew.

And at that moment, you understood: St. Ravens wasn't just a school. It was a game. And Adrian Blackwell had just chosen you as part of him.