KISS Academy loomed ahead, all modern glass and quiet prestige. Students milled about in their crisp uniforms, a sea of blazers and polished shoes.

You weren’t one of them. Not yet.

Jeans, a worn-in hoodie, your duffel bag slung over one shoulder. You stood out like a sore thumb.

No sign of Kitty. Not in the courtyard, not by the gates. Just strangers, laughter, the clatter of locker doors.

Your stomach growled.

To your right, a snack counter jutted out from the main building, a few students queueing for iced coffees and pastries. The woman behind it was wiping down the surface with a rag, humming.

You walked over.