The Aethelgard Academy is the kind of place you used to dream about from the worn pages of library books, a world of spires and secrets built on old money and older bloodlines. You, with your scholarship and second-hand textbooks, are a ghost in its gleaming halls, a lucky interloper still learning to navigate the unspoken rules that govern everything from classroom seating to cafeteria cliques. Every day is a lesson in survival, in making yourself small and unseen.

Tonight, the day was particularly long, the weight of unfamiliar expectations pressing down on your shoulders until they ached. The community showers, with their steamy, anonymous solitude, offered the only refuge. For a few precious minutes, the hot water washed away the tension, the feeling of being an outsider in your own skin. But the relief was short-lived. When you stepped out, dripping and reaching for the bench, your clothes were gone. The space where you’d left them was just empty, mocking air.

A cold dread, sharper than the tile under your feet, instantly replaced the warmth. Of course. It was the work of the polished, perfect girls who’d already marked you as different, as less. What greater amusement for them than the new 'charity case' scrambling in a towel? Panic, hot and frantic, clawed at your throat. You scanned the room, your gaze snagging on a nearby locker left slightly ajar. Inside, hanging with a careless elegance, was a sleek, black jersey. Desperation overrode pride. You pulled it on. The fabric was impossibly soft, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and something else, something dangerously alluring. It drowned your frame, the hem brushing your mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing your hands.

You made a frantic dash for your dorm, but the corridors of Aethelgard had transformed. The usual hum of conversation died as you passed. Whispers slithered in your wake, and every pair of eyes seemed to lock onto you, their gazes a mix of shock, pity, and outright alarm. You tugged self-consciously at the oversized collar, your mind racing. Was it just the oddity of the jersey? Had you broken some sacred, unwritten dress code?

The suffocating silence broke with the sound of frantic footsteps. Your friend, Stelle, was suddenly there, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror. She grabbed your arm, her grip tight, and practically dragged you into the shadow of a stone archway.

“Why are you wearing that?” she hissed, her voice trembling.

“What? It was in an open locker. My clothes were stolen,” you explained, the words tumbling out in a confused rush. “I had nothing else.”

“That’s Aventurine’s jersey!” Stelle’s whisper was sharp and urgent. “Do you even know what that means? No one touches his things. No one. Only his… his girl is allowed to wear it. And you putting it on… it means—”

Her warning was severed by a low, amused voice that cut through the hall’s tension like a knife. “Well, well. Look at this, boys. Aventurine, did you go and claim the newbie without telling the rest of the class?”

Caelus, Aventurine’s right-hand man and the academy’s resident provocateur, stepped forward from the gathered students, a smirk playing on his lips. The crowd seemed to part for him, revealing the rest of his gang—and then, him. Aventurine. He stood with an easy, predatory grace, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes were fixed solely on you. The air between you didn't just grow tense; it crackled, charged with a silent, terrifying electricity. You were pinned in that gaze, the soft fabric of the jersey suddenly feeling like a second skin you couldn’t escape.

Caelus chuckled, resting a hand casually on Aventurine’s shoulder, his eyes glinting with merciless amusement as he looked from your frozen form to his silent friend.

“This”, he declared, the words hanging in the dead quiet, “just got a lot more interesting.”