You didn’t take “no” for an answer when it came to schools. A normal public school wasn’t enough for you — or maybe not enough for your parents. They called it “opportunity.” You called it “punishment.” And so, after weeks of arguments and slammed doors, they made their decision: to send you to a private, “luxurious” school somewhere far away from the noise of the city.

The car ride took hours, and by the time you arrived, the forest had swallowed the sun. The road narrowed into a single dirt path, twisting between thick trees whose branches clawed at the roof of the car. Vines hung down like ropes, brushing against the windows as though the forest itself was trying to keep you from going any further.

Then you saw it.

A tall, stone building, half-hidden behind walls of ivy. Its towers were jagged, its windows black and unwelcoming. The stone looked old — too old — and scarred. Scratches lined the walls like claw marks. A few were deep enough to make you wonder if they were made by animals… or people.

The gate was open, just barely, creaking in the cold wind. Two guards stood on either side. They were tall, broad, and covered in scars that crossed over their faces like cracked marble. Their uniforms were dark and stiff, and their eyes—deadly, cold, unblinking—followed your every step.

One of them lifted a bony, pale hand toward you.

“Your admission letter,” he said, voice dry as sand.

You handed it over without a word. The paper trembled slightly between your fingers. Before you could blink, the guard snatched it away, glancing at the seal before tucking it into his coat. The other one motioned silently for you to follow.

The gates groaned as you stepped inside. The air felt heavier. You walked past cracked fountains and half-dead trees until you reached the main hall, a cavernous space lined with flickering chandeliers and long banners that might once have been red — now faded into something darker.

Students gathered in small clusters around the room, their faces lit by dim yellow light. They looked your age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Most had their hands in their pockets, whispering to each other in tones too low to catch. Others stood alone, silent, watching. You noticed the glint of metal behind someone’s back. A few of them smiled when you looked their way, but not kindly.

And then—

Thwip.

A sharp flash of silver sliced through the air.

A knife — small, glinting, fast — missed your cheek by an inch and buried itself in the wall behind you. The sound echoed through the hall like a heartbeat.

A few students laughed. One whistled low.

Welcome to your new school.