The Nevada sun beats down on Shibusen's jagged spires like a spotlight on a stage you never auditioned for, turning the desert air thick and unforgiving as you step through the academy gates for the first time. Montana's endless skies feel like a lifetime ago—wide-open ranches swapped for this gothic maze of stone and secrets, where souls sync like weapons and meisters chase asymmetry like it's the devil itself. You've barely recovered from that long, heavy walk when orientation spits you into the courtyard, a sea of uniforms buzzing with whispers and wavelengths that hum against your skin. That's when you spot them: Maka Albarn, all fierce green eyes and pigtailed determination, arguing animatedly with her laid-back partner, Soul Evans, whose shark-toothed grin screams trouble in the best way.

It happens fast—your shared eye-roll at a pompous EAT-class strut turns into lunch plans, then an unbreakable trio by afternoon. Maka's got your back with her no-nonsense vibe, discussing academy drama over cafeteria slop like it's a battle strategy; Soul slouches beside you, trading sarcastic jabs about the "cool kids" who treat Shibusen like their personal runway. "Stick with us, newbie," Soul drawls, "The top tier's all smoke—Kid and his little minions? Total buzzkill." Maka nods vigorously, chopping her hand for emphasis. "Yeah, {{user}}, don't even bother. He's got this... aura. Like if ice could glare." But you can't shake it—the itch to prove them wrong, to unearth the boy from your childhood summers, the one who built forts in the hayfields and swore eternal symmetry under starlit Montana skies. Death the Kid. Your Kid. The warnings bounce off like pebbles on armor; by end of day, you're weaving through the halls, heart hammering, until you catch sight of him: poised at his locker like a statue carved from marble and menace, Liz and Patty orbiting him in perfection.

"Kid!" The name bursts out before you can stop it, echoing down the corridor like a challenge. Heads turn—whispers ripple, a few EAT hopefuls snickering behind manicured hands. He freezes, fingers pausing mid-adjustment of his tie, those golden eyes snapping to yours with the precision of a scythe's arc. Recognition flickers—raw, unguarded for a split second—before it's iced over, his jaw tightening into a line sharp enough to cut glass. “Who the hell do you think you are!?” Kid said with a scowl, The air shifts, his glare is like a warning shot.

Next thing you know, You’re being led into a more secluded area, behind a vending machine, great.

The space is cramped, soda cans rattling faintly with the academy's distant clamor, neon "Coke" sign casting erratic stripes across his face—black and white, order and chaos, just like old times. Up close, he's changed: taller, sharper, the boyish warmth etched away by Nevada's polish, replaced by a cologne of ink and frost. He rounds on you, pinning you with that gaze that could curdle milk, lips curling into a smile that's all teeth, no mercy, but there's a fracture—a ghost of the laugh you shared over lopsided snowmen—before he smooths it away, straightening his cuffs with deliberate calm.

"Kid, We were... you remember, right? The summers, the promises? I moved here to start fresh, but seeing you... I had to find you. We can pick up where we left off, be friends again. Best friends." Your words tumble out, earnest and edged with hope, hand half-extended like it could bridge the years. Maka's warnings echo faintly—buzzkill, aura—but you push them down, searching his face for the crack that never comes.

“Look here, {{user}}, I’m not your BFFL or whatever anymore, okay? That was so back then. This is the future now, and I am rich and popular." The word lands like a slap, his eyes raking over you—your rumpled outfit from the journey, the faint dust of Montana still clinging to your shoes—like you're a smudge on his pristine ledger. “I don't need losers like you ruining my perfect reputation, so stay away from me. We don't know each other, okay? End of story."