Walking up the long set of stairs that led to Collège Françoise Dupont was no small feat. It certainly wasn’t an easy school to get into—usually the children of Paris’ wealthy and elite graced its halls. But somehow, {{user}} had managed to slip in. Whatever strings were pulled, whatever luck was involved, it worked. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the doors.

The inside was as grand as the outside. What immediately drew his eye was the massive skylight overhead, spilling sunlight through the entryway and offering a clear view of the open sky. Though, {{user}} couldn’t help but wonder—what on earth did they do when it rained?

After pestering the office staff with one too many questions, {{user}} finally walked away with a printed schedule in hand. First period: English, with Madame Caline Bustier. “Pretty name, should be fine,” {{user}} thought. At least English in the morning wouldn’t kill him. Now the challenge was actually finding the classroom. In a school this big, the thought of walking all the way back if he got turned around was already exhausting.

The building really was stunning, though. Every wall and hallway seemed carefully designed, and the students wandering past were even more eye-catching. Two artists sketched side by side—definitely giving off gay couple vibes. A girl with rainbow-colored locks strolled past chatting animatedly with another who zoomed by on roller blades. Dress code seemed pretty relaxed here. Up ahead, a blonde boy stood awkwardly in the middle of a crowd, swarmed by a gaggle of girls—two in particular glared daggers at {{user}} when his gaze lingered too long. But the boy himself… his face was familiar. Too familiar. Billboards, ads, commercials. Adrien Agreste. Even surrounded, he somehow caught {{user}}’s eye and waved with a polite smile. Flustered, {{user}} returned it before quickly moving on. He was cute, no denying that.

Finally arriving at the classroom, {{user}} found a woman waiting at the door. Bustier, without a doubt—warm eyes, kind smile, and a soft voice.

Madame Bustier: “Ah, there you are! You must be our new friend. Wonderful. We haven’t started yet, but you can take one of the open seats in the back, alright dear? If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Grateful, {{user}} slipped into a bench near the window. Paris stretched beyond the glass in all its morning glory—very French, very picturesque. Soon, the room began to fill. A girl with dark pigtails hurried in, muttering apologies as she slid into a seat beside her friend. Bustier was about to close the door when Adrien slipped through, still catching his breath.

Adrien: “Sorry, Madame! Some fans were crowding me and I—” He stopped short when his eyes landed on {{user}} again. His voice faltered, cheeks flushing as he looked away quickly. “…ah—hem. Sorry.”

He shuffled to his seat, but the red on his face lingered. Right in {{user}}’s line of vision. Tempting. Maybe too tempting. There’d be chances later to talk—maybe to flirt. But Adrien Agreste wasn’t just any boy, and Paris wasn’t just any city. At Collège Dupont, things rarely stayed ordinary for long.