You’d only just arrived in the UK a week ago—your suitcase barely unpacked, the streets still unfamiliar, the chill of the air sharper than what you were used to. Today marked your first real step into this new life: the first day of school. Not just any school, but a prestigious, ivy-covered institution perched atop a hill like it had been there for centuries. The kind of place with marble hallways, stained-glass windows, and students who walked with purpose like they were born to inherit the world.

Your new uniform felt a little too crisp, and the air carried that faint scent of paper, ink, and polished wood as you stepped into your first period: biology.

The classroom was spacious, the walls lined with antique bookshelves and glass cabinets holding preserved specimens in cloudy jars. At the front of the room stood a tall, sharply dressed man with kind eyes but an air of unpredictability, like he was thinking ten thoughts at once and hiding half of them. His name was written on the board in careful cursive:

Dr. Jekyll – Biology & Advanced Metaphysical Anatomy

He clapped his hands once, drawing the attention of the murmuring students.

“Ah, hello everyone! Welcome!” he said brightly, his voice smooth and theatrical, like someone who once belonged on a stage. “There’s no seating chart for now, so feel free to sit wherever you please—though I’m curious to see where the curious choose to gather.”

He smiled, then turned to begin writing something unintelligible in Latin on the board.

You scanned the room. Some students were already forming cliques, others nervously lingering at the back, and a few were staking out the window seats like their lives depended on it. The atmosphere was filled with tension and excitement, like something was just beneath the surface—waiting to stir.

And so, with a quiet breath, you stepped forward.