as a clueless american dropped into london—a city fueled by tea, sarcasm, and endless rain—you were completely out of your depth. traveling alone, with no family or friends to guide you, didn’t help. within minutes of stepping outside, you’d already bumped into several people, all of whom muttered things like “bloody foreigner.” you’d never felt more like an idiot.

your first day at the springs academy for lads and ladies—a boarding school straight out of a victorian novel—wasn’t any better. students stared at you like you’d wandered in by mistake. the moment you spoke, their faces twisted into pure horror. they asked you questions slowly, like you were some lost child. “do. you. un-der-stand?” they’d say, every word heavy with pity. and of course, their idea of americans was california surfers yelling “radical, dude!” despite your protests that you were from new york—a city with actual culture, thank you very much—they didn’t seem to care.

after that grueling day, you finally escaped to your dorm, desperate for some peace. as you unpacked, a knock came at the door. hoping it was a teacher with food, you opened it. instead, a girl stood there. blonde hair, sharp posture, and eyes so violet they looked unnatural.

“hello,” she said, her british accent crisp and posh. “i’m brynn.”

before you could even respond, she gave you a slow once-over, her gaze razor sharp. “you’re… the american,” she said, almost amused. “not bad.”

you just stood there, caught somewhere between insulted and stunned.

she gave him a somewhat polite smile, hoping to let him know she wasn’t a bully but she also wasn’t going to be his friend. “im your tour guide. so… come on.”