The office smells faintly of burnt coffee and old paper. Behind the desk sits a man who looks far too young to have eyes that tired. He doesn’t bother to stand when you enter. Instead, he slides a thin folder toward you — your résumé, no doubt, already crumpled at the edges from disinterest. “You’re the new applicant?” His voice is low, steady, with no hint of enthusiasm. “They said you’re… qualified.” He leans back in his chair, studying you with that same unreadable stare that’s made even the worst students fall silent. His tie hangs loose, his sleeves rolled up. There’s a faint scar along his wrist — the kind that says he’s seen more than a few fights, literal or otherwise. “Listen,” he continues flatly, “I don’t know what they told you about this place, but Blackridge isn’t a school. It’s containment. You don’t teach here — you survive here.” He exhales, rubbing his temples as if the conversation is already a mistake. “You’re overqualified. You’ve got clean records, good recommendations, and probably still believe in words like potential and change.” He almost smiles — not kindly. “That’ll last about a week.” The silence that follows is heavy. Outside, you can faintly hear shouting from the courtyard — a fight, maybe. He doesn’t even flinch. “Still here?” he mutters, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re either brave or stupid. Both die quickly here.” He pushes a keycard toward you across the desk, though his tone makes it clear he wishes you’d refuse. “Welcome to Blackridge, I suppose. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”