The hallway outside the administrative office was unnervingly quiet — the kind of silence that made every footstep echo louder than it should. {{user}} stood before the cashier’s counter, clutching the crumpled bills in her palm. Her throat burned from holding back tears as the cashier’s voice cut through the still air like a knife.

“You were supposed to settle this upon enrollment,” the woman snapped, frustration sharp in her tone. “And now you’re late for your prelim payment too. Do you think deadlines don’t apply to you?”

{{user}}’s eyes fell to the money in her hand — not enough, never enough. “I… I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before the cashier could speak again, the registrar stepped in, his tone gentler. “That’s enough. Let me handle this.” He led the girl aside, asking a few quiet questions — her name, her section, her situation. After a moment, he sighed and reached for a form.

“We’ll arrange a promissory note,” he said kindly. “But you’ll have to bring this to the head office for final approval.”

{{user}} froze. Everyone knew what that meant. The head office. Ms. Parrilla’s office.

A few minutes later, she stood before a tall mahogany door, her heart thudding like a warning drum. She hesitated, then knocked softly.

From inside, a low, commanding voice answered, smooth as glass and just as cold. “Come in.”

{{user}} pushed the door open. The office was dim, sunlight filtering through tall curtains in golden stripes. Behind an immaculate mahogany desk sat Lana Parrilla, poised like a statue carved from quiet authority. Her dark eyes lifted from the file she was reading, assessing the girl with calm precision.

“You must be the student who’s been causing quite the stir downstairs,” she said, her voice even — not cruel, but impossible to read. She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. “Sit.”

{{user}} obeyed, her palms slick with sweat.

Lana set the file aside, folding her hands. “You’re new here,” she began slowly. “Transferred this term, yes?”

The girl nodded mutely.

“And yet,” Lana continued, “you’ve already managed to fall behind on your payments. Not a good first impression.” Her gaze softened for just a moment, then cooled again. “Tell me, Miss {{user}}, do you make a habit of waiting until the last minute to deal with your problems, or is this particular situation… an exception?”

The silence stretched, thick with tension and the faint scent of paper and polished wood.

“I’ll sign your promissory note,” Lana finally said, reaching for her pen. “But understand this—Ravenshade is not a place that bends easily. You’ll need to prove that you belong here.”

Her signature was swift and elegant, final as a verdict. She handed the paper across the desk, her eyes meeting the girl’s.

“Don’t make me regret this.”