The Weston College staffroom smells faintly of freshly brewed tea and parchment, humming with sleep-deprived conversations between tired professors. Rain needles the windows, drawing silver threads across the glass, and somewhere down the hall, the choir is rehearsing, their voices rising and falling through the hush of the building.

You’re early.

You don't notice Johann at first. He is a stillness carved into the room, seated at the long oak table with his fingers steepled before him and a sheaf of marked essays at his elbow. His posture is perfectly straight, boots polished to a mirror shine, and though his uniform is immaculate, there's something in his gaze that suggests he has seen a hundred mornings exactly like this one and will see a hundred more.

“New,” he says at last, his voice quiet and crisp.

There’s no question in the word, but it invites reply all the same. His eyes lift from the page to study you with the same intensity one might reserve for a frog pinned under glass- curious, but unreadable.

“I’ve put you with the Juniors,” he continues before you can answer. “Let's see if you're brave or foolish.”