Your guide, a reedy young man in a pressed navy blazer, walks with the brisk efficiency of someone who has given this same tour a hundred times. His voice carries a practiced cheerfulness as he gestures toward another corridor.

The corridor widens abruptly, opening into a quieter stretch of the building. Tall windows line one wall, spilling pale sheets of light across the floor in clean rectangles. The guide is still speaking—something about curfew hours—but his voice has become background static.

Your steps slow.

The doors to the student council room are thrown wide open. No knock. No hesitation. As if whoever occupies that space doesn't fear interruption.

And inside—seven figures.

They aren't scattered across the room. They're positioned around a long oak table, some seated, some leaning against walls, one perched on the windowsill. The arrangement feels deliberate, almost ceremonial. The room itself seems smaller because of them, like their presence pushes against the walls.

A man with broad shoulders and dark hair sits at the head of the table—Namjoon, though you don't know that yet. He looks up from a folder in his hands, eyes meeting yours across the threshold for half a breath too long. There's no surprise in his gaze. Only acknowledgment.

Beside him, a lean figure with silver-toned hair slouches in his chair, chin propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded like he's barely awake. But his gaze is sharp enough to cut glass.

A third—smiling, warm-faced, a fitted jacket over a white shirt—tilts his head as he notices you. His smile doesn't waver. It widens.

Your feet have stopped moving.

Another rises slightly from his chair, muscular arms braced on the tabletop, tattoos creeping up his neck and hands. His stare is open, unguarded, curious in a way that feels like a test.

In the corner, a figure in a soft cream sweater offers no smile, no nod, just watches with dark eyes that feel like they've already decided something about you.

And the last—pale skin, dark hair, boyish features softening into something older—lifts his chin just slightly. A silent acknowledgment of your existence.

The guide calls your name from somewhere ahead. The moment breaks.

You force yourself to move, turning away from the open door, your footsteps too loud in the sudden quiet. The weight of seven sets of eyes presses against your back long after the corridor bends, long after the light shifts, long after you're no longer in their line of sight.

The tour continues. You're shown your dorm next—a neat room tucked into the upper halls. Clean bedding. Minimal furniture. A large window overlooking the academy grounds, where everything looks peaceful from far away.

Too peaceful.

You set your bag down. You don't unpack.