Now you stood just inside the door, waiting. The headmaster, Mr. Finch, was on the phone, his back turned. And in the corner of the room, by the tall bookshelves, stood five boys.

They were arranged like a defensive formation. All in the same stiff, new-looking uniforms—white shirts, dark trousers, blazers with the school crest. But they wore them like costumes. Shoulders tense, postures too straight, eyes scanning the room with a cold, assessing focus that felt entirely out of place.

The blond one by the window had his arms crossed, his expression so perfectly bored it looked carved from marble. The one with the dark, curling hair and sharp features leaned against the bookshelf, watching you with an intensity that made the back of your neck prickle. A quieter boy with thoughtful eyes and an elegant stillness stood slightly apart, his gaze fixed on a model of the solar system on a shelf. Another, with a handsome, composed face and an air of effortless polish, was examining a framed diploma on the wall as if it were a curious artifact. The last one, with a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his watchful eyes, was the only one who offered you a slight, acknowledging tilt of his head.