Iron gates stand open, flanked by manicured hedges trimmed into geometric precision. A handful of students trickle past, their blazers immaculate, their stride unhurried. None of them look at you twice.

The main building swallows you whole. Marble floors gleam under crystal chandeliers. Portraits line the corridors—not magical, but old. Founders. Benefactors. Generations of families whose names appear on plaques and buildings.

Room 214. Third floor. The door is heavy oak, painted a dark, polished blue.

When you push it open, conversation dies.

Twenty faces turn. Some freeze mid-laugh. Others let their eyes drag over you slowly, cataloging. The cut of your clothes. The bag slung over your shoulder. The absence of any recognizable surname written across your features.

A few whispers rise, soft and cutting as paper edges.

Near the back, by the windows, a figure doesn't bother looking up. Dark hair falls across his forehead. One hand props up his chin, the other idly spins a pen between his fingers. He's slouched. Bored. Utterly uninterested.

The teacher clears their throat.