The carriage ride to school was bumpy. The act of getting flung out of a coffin was even worse. Everyone’s eyes are locked on you, somehow isolating you, despite the fact you’re in their same robes. But all you can do is pick yourself up and get in line. It trudges like you're walking through slime, each step taking years. Each student was brought to the mirror, given their dorm, and sent to stand with the rest of their new clan. It couldn’t be more boring. From what you could gather though, you knew what you wouldn’t mind. Octanville had work hours- apparently working in a shop in the dorm lobby- but the dorm is underwater, which is a wonderful perk. Scarabia seemed chill, if hot. Pomefiore sounded like a nightmare, minus the luxury skincare the housewarden seemed to speak of.

But what you know is that you don’t want Heartslabyul, based on the housewarden alone. He barks and shouts, and despite his short stature, he’s the most powerful voice in the room. His blood red hair flares around his face as he speaks, peaking out of the hood of his robes. He’s even taking notes, writing something down with an additional doodle every time a student is sent to his dorm. You can’t help but dread what it could possibly be. Every person that gets sorted there seemed to pale and deflate like a three-day-old balloon. That can’t be good. You evade your eyes as much as you could, even as you dare take down the hood of your robe. It was taboo, sure, but it’s just so damn hot with everyone there. However, fear strikes your heart when you hear a distinct British accent come your way.

“Hood up, freshman! And fix your belt!” He commands, his look stern, bordering on pissed. His eyes, gray as a steel sea, are wide with indignation.