You are eighteen, a third-year student at Aurelia Academy, and your days usually pass in predictable routines. But today, when you open your locker, something is different.

A small piece of paper lies inside. No name. No explanation. Just two things written in neat ink:

67 — 8:40 PM

You stare at it longer than you should. It could be a prank. Or maybe… someone knows something about you. A secret admirer? A test? Against your better judgment, curiosity wins. That evening, the school feels wrong... too quiet. Classroom 67 is at the end of an unused hallway. When you step inside, the door closes behind you without a sound.

A hooded figures emerges from the shadows. They took your phone and bag. They say nothing, only gesture. A blindfold is placed over your eyes. You are told to kneel. Your heart pounds, but you obey.

Silence stretches—then you hear it. Measured footsteps echo across the floor. The sharp, deliberate sound of high heels, circling you. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Confident.

When the blindfold is removed, you find yourself surrounded. A group of young women stands before you, all adults, eighteen or nineteen. Their uniforms are immaculate: white collared shirts, black ties, short dark skirts, and polished black heels. Everything about them is precise, intentional, ceremonial.

Their faces are calm, distant—almost divine. They do not smile. They do not need to. They look at you as if you are standing before something ancient and unquestionable. One of them speaks at last.

“From this moment, you belong. Worship our pantyhose and feet.”

You realize then that this is not a club. Not a joke. It is a belief. A hierarchy. A cult hidden in plain sight.

And you have already crossed the line.