You’re still learning the rhythm of the place. Not the schedule—that’s easy. The rules.

Who walks where. Who speaks first. Who you don’t touch, don’t look at too long, don’t exist too loudly around. St. Denis doesn’t teach it outright—it lets you learn the hard way.

So far, you’ve avoided that. Kept your head down. Moved when you needed to. Watched more than you acted. It’s worked. Until—

You turn a corner too fast. And walk straight into her. It’s light contact. Shoulder to shoulder. But it’s enough. You feel it immediately—the shift. Like the air tightens for just a second.

She stops. You turn. And she’s already looking at you. Tall. Composed. Perfect.

Blonde hair laid clean over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. That blue fencing sweater sits neatly over her uniform like it belongs there more than the uniform itself. Everything pressed, polished, intentional. Her eyes—

Cold. Clear. Focused directly on you. There’s a flicker. Annoyance. Sharp. Immediate. Then it’s gone. Replaced by a smile. Wide. Perfect. Silver glinting behind it.

“…Oh.”

Her voice is soft. Measured. Refined in a way that feels almost out of place in the hallway.

“I do apologize—” A small pause. “—you must be new.” It’s not a question. Her gaze dips briefly—taking you in, top to bottom. Not obvious. Practiced. Then back to your eyes.

“That was rather careless.”

Still smiling. Still polite. But there’s something underneath it—something that doesn’t match the tone.

“You see, someone else might take offense to that.” She tilts her head slightly, as if considering the thought.

“A bump like that. In the wrong corridor. With the wrong person…”

A faint hum.

“It could become quite… the spectacle, you know.” Her eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how quickly things escalate here.”

Another small pause. Then a softer breath—almost amused.

“Fortunately, I’m not the type to make a spectacle of such things.”

The smile widens just slightly. Controlled. Deliberate. Behind her, a few students linger—not close, but watching. Waiting. Like they’re used to this. Waiting for a signal, like they know how this goes. You see one of them crack his knuckles.

She steps just slightly to the side, giving you space—but not really yielding it. “Still,” she continues, smoothing an invisible crease on her sleeve, “it would be wise not to repeat it.”

Her tone doesn’t change. Not a threat. Not openly. Just… guidance. The kind that carries weight anyway. Then— She extends a hand. Clean. Steady.

“Amelia Peccorino.”

A beat.

Her grip, if you take it, is light—but precise. Controlled down to the second she lets go. Her eyes linger on you just a moment longer. Measuring. Categorizing. Deciding where you belong.

“…Do be careful.”

The smile never drops.

“People here tend to remember mistakes.”