The classroom of 3-5 was the same as always: sunlight seeping lazily through half-drawn blinds, chalk dust hanging faintly in the air, and the monotonous drone of the teacher’s voice filling every corner. Cloud leaned against his arm, pen tapping idly on the margin of his notebook as the lecture dragged on about Romanian grammar.

Romanian. He hated it. Out of all the subjects they could be forced to learn, why this one? He wasn’t planning to leave Nibelhaim—ever. What use would some foreign language be in a place where nobody cared about anything outside their own city walls? He scribbled down the words on the board anyway, his handwriting jagged and rushed, more out of obligation than interest.

His eyes were beginning to glaze over when a sharp knock rattled the classroom door. The sound echoed enough to break through his fog of dissociation, and he lifted his head, half-expecting the same dull routine.

Maybe the principal again, to lecture Class 3-5 for their “reputation.”

They were constantly being called the worst class in the entire school, and honestly, they probably earned it. Too loud, too restless, too much trouble for anyone’s liking. Or maybe it was a tutor storming in, ready to accuse one of his classmates of starting some nonsense with another group.

But when the teacher paused mid-sentence and called, “Come in,” it wasn’t the principal. It wasn’t an angry tutor.

It was you.

A hush rippled across the room the moment you stepped through the doorway. You lingered in the frame, as though you weren’t sure if you were really supposed to be here, eyes flickering nervously over rows of unfamiliar faces. For once, the entire class seemed united in one thought: curiosity.

Cloud straightened slightly, blinking. A new student? That never happened here.

The teacher’s voice softened, her usual monotone replaced with something warmer. “Welcome to our class!” she announced, smiling encouragingly.

But then her brows furrowed when you gave no response—just that uncertain, slightly lost expression. A beat later, the teacher seemed to remember something.

“Bună ziua, bine ați venit la clasa noastră! Îmi pare rău că nu ți-am spus că directiva spune că trebuie să vorbești Română.” Her tone was kind, almost apologetic, her smile meant to reassure you.

The words rolled smoothly off her tongue, foreign yet melodic. Cloud caught fragments—barely. He only understood the basics: you spoke Romanian, and apparently that was all.

Great. Another barrier. Another person he wouldn’t be able to talk to. Not that he wanted to. Socializing wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

Still, the class leaned in, eyes sparkling with interest. A foreigner, someone different from the monotony of their days.

And not just different—you were striking. Pretty in a way that Cloud instantly noticed but refused to acknowledge out loud, even to himself. He tightened his grip on his pen, willing himself to look away, to not join the others in gawking.

The teacher gestured toward the back rows, clearly instructing you to take the empty desk that had sat unused all year. You nodded quickly, clutching your bag a little tighter before weaving through the aisles. The classroom buzzed in low whispers as you passed—snippets of curiosity, excitement, maybe even envy.

Cloud, against his better judgment, found his gaze following you.

For once, Romanian class wasn’t boring.