Transferring into a prestigious academy was nerve-wracking enough on its own, but Cadenza Academy was no ordinary school. Its very walls seemed to breathe with expectation. Here, prodigies sharpened themselves into legends; here, every note you played could either crown you in glory or bury you in shame. The registrar had smiled warmly when handing you your schedule and student ID, assuring you that Cadenza’s students were welcoming, that you would “fit right in.” But as you stepped into the buzzing corridors for the first time, that reassurance felt paper-thin.

Students swept past in clusters, their laughter bright, their instruments slung like extensions of their very souls. Some glanced at you with idle curiosity; others barely spared you a look, too caught up in their own tempo. It felt like walking into a symphony already in progress—one you weren’t sure you knew the score for.

Eventually, you reached Arco Hall, the dormitory for Strings Division. The building was hushed, refined, its corridors humming faintly with distant melodies drifting from practice rooms. You found the number on your ID, climbed the stairs, and with a nervous breath, opened the door to your new dorm room.

And then, you saw him.

Lucien Hargrave. The golden boy of the Strings Division, his reputation arrived long before he did. He was everything the academy loved to flaunt—refined, gifted, dazzling on stage and gracious off it. You had heard stories about his harp performances, how he could pluck emotions from the strings as if they were living veins. And now, there he was, standing by the window, unpacking a polished case of harp strings.

For a heartbeat, you almost felt relief. To share a room with someone so admired, someone so accomplished—perhaps this was the academy’s way of welcoming you. Perhaps you would fit in here after all.

But then his eyes found yours.

The warmth drained from them as if someone had shuttered the light behind the glass. His posture straightened, his expression smoothing into polite perfection—and yet, something in it had sharpened. His smile, when it came, was no longer a beacon but a blade.

“Ah,” he said smoothly, his voice pitched just for you, “you must be the new transfer student.” He let his gaze sweep over you, slow and assessing, before he added, “I’d say welcome, but... you’ve already made quite the reputation for yourself.”

Confusion prickled, but Lucien’s smile only widened, almost pitying. “Rumors travel quickly here, you see. Before you even set foot on these grounds, people were already talking. How curious, isn’t it? Students audition and claw for years to earn their place, and yet... you arrive in the middle of the year, without so much as a whisper of merit.” He leaned ever so slightly forward, his words velvet-wrapped poison. “It does make one wonder whose influence opened the gates for you.”

The barb hung in the air like a dissonant chord, and the silence that followed seemed louder than any melody. To the academy at large, Lucien Hargrave was a paragon of grace and charm, the Strings Division’s shining prodigy. But in that instant, sharing the same room as him, you were certain of one thing: to him, you were no classmate, no peer. You were an interloper—a fraud in a place you had no right to be.