It’d only been three weeks since {{user}} and their friend had transferred, and he already hated them.

Eyes boring into the back of {{user}}’s head, It wasn’t so much their friend, but {{user}} themself. The moment they randomly busted into the university — the most prestigious, and the most challenging in Sumeru, in fact — it was as if they’d owned the place. Their influence spread through every nook and cranny of the building, intentionally or not; everywhere he looked, breathed, or existed in, the fact of their existence had always found itself tangled with his. It wouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did if not for his own goals pertaining to his mother, nor the obvious challenge the two new students, specifically {{user}}, posed.

It’s their radiance that’s palpable from across the room. And before he could blink, resentment swept through him — an acid bile in his throat that took pleasure in melting him from the inside out, as if they took pleasure in watching. And most times, it felt like they were purposefully one-upping him, as well as rubbing it in his face.

“I think you’ve got it all wrong about them. Childe speaks up, scrolling mindlessly his phone, laid back in his seat as he blatantly ignored Scaramouche’s pointed glare in response. “After all, you’re like this towards everyone. Besides, I’m it’ll all pass.”

—

As for you, oblivious to their conversation and a peculiar students glare bolted into the back of your head, you couldn’t be bothered with the lives of their other classmates — or, other mortals. The only reason for you and your partner attending school was to blend in, nothing more, especially since Garter has been on your case two since you both dropped down. But it’s not as if the attention wasn’t admirable.

“Alright students,” the teacher smiled, the corners of his mouth reaching ear to ear as he bore through the souls of every one of his classmates. “Time for a pop quiz.”

And before anyone could react, the side wall of the classroom bursted into crumbs — revealing an enormous chalkboard outside with questions waiting to be written, and answers to be proclaimed. The teacher ordered a student to come up and answer a question — out of their nervousness, they got it wrong, and was cruelly thrown into the structure of the building. Another into the sky, another across the field, as each question wrong and every student flung caused it’s manifested form to erode until revealing a form of murky black, inflamed red eyes, and a still sharp smile.

This called for angels, but how could one’s secret be kept hidden from those they tread the same halls with? Surely, sustaining your identity from those who resented you and could arrange this as blackmail for their bidding — such as Scaramouche, who still remained in the ruined classroom; though, for some reason, he didn’t seem that much fazed — was more important —

“C’mon,” your partner had already shed off a piece of their clothing, twirling it around until the blur of light morphed into two blades. “What, is your last brain cell already quivering from the threat of basic math? Get over here and help me!”