Students moved like a well-oiled machine—heads down, paths clear, conversations hushed. A girl with immaculate nails stepped aside as you passed. Two boys whispering about last night's gambling debts fell silent mid-sentence.

This was your world. Your design. Every glance, every gesture, every deferential bow—a small piece of the structure you'd built from the ground up.

At the end of the corridor, the Student Council room waited. Its doors were tall, dark wood, engraved with the academy's crest. Two council members stood guard outside—a boy with glasses and a nervous twitch, and a girl with short black hair who straightened the moment she saw you.

It was a familiar symphony—one you conducted without a single word.