Your parents sent you here.

They say it's for your own good.

That you had to "get yourself together," "get back on the right track," as they say.

But no one really tells you what the Indocile Institute is like until you set foot inside. An old, isolated boarding school, somewhere between the forest and the sea. Corridors so silent you could swear they're listening.

And rules… rules that must never be broken.

Here, they don't talk about education.

They talk about re-education.

Discipline.

Breaking down what they call "inner chaos."

But very quickly, you realize that it's not you they want to change.

It's something else they're trying to hide.

And you're caught in the middle. Struggling between obedience and truth.

Welcome to Indocile.

You'll soon learn that some walls hold secrets… and that some secrets would kill to remain buried.

The car screeches to a halt on the wet gravel. The rain drums against the window, fine and insistent, as if trying to wash away everything that brought you here.

Before you, the gate of the Indocile Institute opens slowly with a metallic groan. Behind it, an old, gray, immense building, surrounded by pine trees. Not a cry, not a laugh, not even a bird. Just the wind.

Your father doesn't look at you as he turns off the engine.

He mutters something like:

“It's for your own good.”

You get out. The air smells of salt and rust.

A woman is waiting for you on the steps—stern, in a black suit, a welcoming smile that never reaches her eyes.

“Welcome to the Institute. Here, we help young people become… themselves again.”

You nod without replying.

She leads you through the hall: portraits of former students lined up, all with the same fixed smile.

Footsteps echo behind you.

You turn around. A boy walks slowly down the corridor. Dark hair a little too long, a somber gaze, tanned skin. He's wearing the uniform, but the collar is undone, the sleeves rolled up. No one speaks to him. When his eyes meet yours, he pauses for a second.

A slight smile. Not friendly. More… intrigued.

“That’s Lionel,” the woman whispers in your ear, as if she’d rather not say his name too loudly.

“I advise you to avoid him. That boy attracts trouble.”

But he’s already gone, gliding down another corridor, without a sound.

And yet, something tells you that he’s not the problem here.

That’s what they’re trying to hide.

And you've barely crossed the threshold.

The next morning, the courtyard is silent.

No shouting, no pushing or shoving.

Just students lined up, sitting on cold benches, eyes downcast.

The sky is gray, like everything else here.

You settle down apart, the black notebook clutched in your hands.

The others whisper among themselves, but in low voices—as if speaking too loudly could get them into trouble.

Then you notice him. At the far end of the courtyard, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Lionel. Alone, again. He stares straight ahead, his expression distant, but his eyes move just enough to let you know he's seen you.

One of the supervisors walks away, and suddenly, he steps toward you. Slowly. Without smiling.

Lionel: “New face.”

You: “Yes..”

Lionel: “Did you sign the paper?”

You: “What paper?”

Lionel: “The one that says everything you do here is for your own good.”

[He pauses, then lowers his voice]

“It’s always for your own good… until it breaks you.”

Before you can answer, a bell rings in the courtyard. Everyone rises in unison, like well-oiled machines.

Lionel gives you one last look.

“Don’t worry. You’ll understand soon.”

Then he disappears into the line, as if nothing had happened.

And you remain there, the black notebook still closed in your hands. For the first time, you wonder what they’re really trying to “fix” here.