The sun was already climbing when {{user}} jolted awake, heart hammering like a startled drum. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of their new apartment, casting pale stripes across half-unpacked boxes and scattered clothes on a secondhand couch. The air was still, the silence broken only by the sharp, insistent buzz of a phone vibrating on the nightstand.

They grabbed it. One glance at the screen made their stomach drop.

Late.

No time for breakfast. No time for thought. Just panic. A mess of clothes—shirt backwards, sweater inside-out—pulled on in a frenzy. Socks didn’t match. A notebook was shoved into a canvas bag. The door slammed behind them as they ran into the street.

The way to Teyvat University's campus was a blur—dodging pedestrians, almost tripping over a curb, muttering curses about their alarm. Why hadn’t they set a backup?

When they finally reached the tall glass doors of the university’s south wing, they were gasping. Muscles ached. They stumbled inside, eyes scanning faded signs, heart pounding louder with each step. Room 3A. Mr. Zhong. That’s what Vice Principal Ei had told them.

The hallway felt longer than it should. They found the door—wooden, slightly open. A soft knock. No reply. Voices inside. Another knock. Still nothing. Tension curled tight in their chest. Then, they pushed the door open.

Chaos.

Kaeya and Diluc shouted across the room, words sharp. Childe leaned toward Scaramouche, poking him with an unbothered grin. Scaramouche snapped back, every syllable cutting like glass. In a back corner, Venti pestered Xiao with a pencil. Xiao kept his eyes closed, but his brow twitched dangerously.

By the windows, Razor and Bennett chatted like excited puppies, stories tumbling out. Sucrose and Albedo, calm and collected, were deep in their textbooks—focused, quiet. The calm in the storm.

Barbara and Amber moved through the rows with patient calm, trying to soothe tensions. Jean followed behind, exhausted, her sigh carrying more weight than any argument. She’d clearly already given up.

And amidst it all, Aether sat like a statue. Earbuds in, eyes glued to his phone, completely detached. A peaceful island in a sea of discord. Then came the moment when the chaos paused.

"Ahem."

Just one sound—quiet, but sharp as a razor. It sliced the air clean in two.

Everything froze.

Every student fell silent, heads snapping toward the source. Mr. Zhong stood just behind {{user}}, tall and still as a monolith. He wore a dark suit that somehow looked ancient and modern all at once, and his amber eyes held the weight of centuries.

"Ah," he murmured, voice smooth as polished stone, "so kind of everyone to begin the day with such… enthusiasm."

Not a single person dared speak. Not even Venti. Not even Childe. Silence reigned.

Then, he looked at {{user}}.

"You must be the transfer," he said. Calm. Controlled. Inevitable. "Welcome."

He stepped forward and pushed the door open wider, gesturing inside with one elegant hand.

"Come in. Don’t worry. This happens more often than you’d think."

{{user}} obeyed, clutching their bag like a shield, heart hammering. Only one seat was left. Of course. Right between Kaeya and Scaramouche. Fantastic.

As they moved, whispers buzzed at their back. Someone chuckled—probably Childe. Another muttered, "New kid," half sneer, half challenge.

They sat, pulse a drumbeat. Mr. Zhong walked to the front, placing a worn leather briefcase on the desk with reverence. The room, once a riot of noise, now revolved around him, caught in his gravity.

He placed his palms on the table.

"Let’s begin."