Room A2021—Ah! Here it is!

You murmured to yourself, relief washing over you as you finally found your classroom. The hallways had been a maze of eerie whispers, unsettling gazes, and unexplainable happenings, but at least here, within these four walls, you could pretend everything was normal.

Stepping inside, your eyes scanned the room in quick observation—no professor in sight. Perfect.

You let out a quiet breath of relief before swiftly moving towards an empty seat. The last thing you needed was to stand around like some lost, clueless student. That wouldn't do. Not for you.

Your gaze landed on the person beside the seat—a normal-looking guy. Or at least, that's what you thought at first glance.

He sat with a pristine, almost practiced posture, his back straight yet relaxed, his hands delicately folded on the desk as if he were posing for a portrait. His monocle glasses gleamed under the dim lighting, adding an air of intellect and precision to his already sophisticated presence.

His hair, as dark as ink, contrasted sharply with his pale skin, making his sharp features all the more striking. There was a certain unbothered elegance about him, an effortless grace that made it seem like the world around him didn't quite reach his level of refinement.

Handsome.

But more than that—composed. Unlike the obsessive, feral energy that seemed to pulse through the halls, he exuded a sense of control. That intrigued you.

You allowed a carefully crafted smile to bloom on your lips—warm, friendly, harmless. A mask you had worn countless times before.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice carrying just the right amount of friendliness, with an underlying touch of intrigue. A hook.

He barely acknowledged you.

A flick of his eyes in your direction. The slightest incline of his head. And then—nothing.

His gaze returned to the front of the room, dismissing you as if you were nothing more than background noise.

Interesting.

Your smile didn't fail, but internally, you noted his reaction.

Some would see it as rudeness. You saw it as a challenge.

A few minutes later, the soft sound of footsteps approached your desk. You barely paid attention at first—until you noticed the figure heading straight toward you.

He wasn't just walking; his movements were fluid, intentional—as if he already had a destination in mind. Your seat.

Your presence must have been unexpected because, the moment he noticed you occupying it, he hesitated. A fleeting pause. His crimson eyes—dark with an almost hypnotic depth—flickered with something unreadable before he adjusted course, silently choosing the empty seat beside you instead.

He was going to sit here originally.

You turned toward him, plastering on your best warm, yet calculating smile—one meant to disarm and control in equal measure. Every curve of your lips, every softened gaze, was purposeful. You were playing your role perfectly.

"Good morning," you greeted, your tone effortlessly pleasant, as if this were just another casual interaction.

He didn't immediately respond. Instead, he simply settled into his seat with an elegance that felt almost otherworldly. His movements were measured, deliberate—like someone who was always aware of how they were perceived.

And now that he was close, you could fully take him in.

He was beautiful.

Not just the standard kind of attractive, but something ethereal—as if he belonged in a place untouched by imperfection. His platinum-silver hair fell effortlessly, each strand catching the faint light in a way that made it shimmer subtly. His long silver lashes framed his striking crimson eyes, which—now that you were up close—held an eerie hint of black bleeding into the edges of his irises.

His porcelain skin, flawless and untouched by blemishes, only added to his unreal presence. Every feature of his face was sculpted with an almost delicate precision, yet there was nothing delicate about the way he carried himself. There was power in his stillness, calculated intent in his silence.

And yet, despite his beauty, something about him felt dangerous.

Then, at last, he acknowledged you.

A slow, deliberate tilt of his head. A glance that lingered just a second too long. A small, unreadable smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good morning," he finally replied, his voice smooth, soft—yet disturbingly composed.

You didn't break eye contact.

Neither did he.

For a moment, it felt like a silent game of recognition. As if he knew something you didn't. As if he was testing how long you could hold your mask.

You kept your smile.

He kept his.

This one is going to be trouble.

As expected, the conversation followed a predictable script.

"You're new," he stated rather than asked, his voice smooth yet composed, like someone who rarely spoke unless necessary.

You nodded, offering an effortless smile. “Is it that obvious?”

His crimson eyes—deep, almost hypnotic—didn't waver from you. "Yes."

Of course, it was. Your presence was unfamiliar, an anomaly among students who had already learned how to navigate this place. You played into it, allowing a sheepish chuckle to slip past your lips.

“Well, guilty as charged.” You gestured vaguely. “I transferred here recently. Still trying to find my way around.”

His lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, not quite unreadable. "You will," he said, a strange certainty in his tone.

His responses were measured, almost too controlled. But he answered your questions willingly enough. His name. His schedule. A few surface-level details about the institute.

“My name is Mikhail.”

Mikhail. It suited him. Regal, composed—carrying an air of devotion that only confirmed your suspicions.

You kept your expression neutral, your smile carefully measured. “A strong name.”

He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the comment but not feeding into it.

For the next few minutes, you continued to chat, subtly maintaining your manipulative facade. You asked seemingly innocent questions, slipping in casual remarks that made you appear approachable—trustworthy. The kind of person people confide in.

And yet, Mikhail was not so easily swayed.

Every response was precise, calculated—like a man who had long since mastered the art of restraint.

You adjusted your posture, crossing one leg over the other and turning slightly toward Mikhail with an air of casual interest. “So, Mikhail,” you began smoothly, “are you from around here?”

He looked at you, eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. “Born and raised,” he said. His voice was soft but held an underlying weight—like every word was measured before being released into the world.

You hummed, pretending to be impressed. “Must be nice, being familiar with everything.”

“Familiarity is a double-edged sword,” he said idly, adjusting his sleeve. “It makes one comfortable… complacent. But it also strips away any illusions. You see things as they truly are.”

Your lips curled into a small smile. Interesting answer. “And how do you see things?”

Then, almost as if it were a mere afterthought, he uttered something that made your instincts sharpen.

Mikhail finally turned his body slightly toward you, giving you his full attention. “I see the order in chaos. The inevitability of fate.” His crimson-black eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I see the will of my gods in all things.”

Your mind immediately latched onto the keyword: gods. Faithful. Ritualistic.

So, he was one of them.

You didn’t react, didn’t stiffen or let your surprise show. Instead, you tilted your head, feigning polite curiosity. “That sounds… admirable.”

Mikhail studied you, as if peeling away your carefully placed layers. Then, a small, knowing smile touched his lips. “It is.”

You met his gaze with a carefully crafted look of intrigue, but inside, your mind was racing. Ritualistics were unpredictable. To them, obsession wasn’t an indulgence—it was a divine calling.

Best not to poke at his beliefs too much.

Shifting the conversation, you let out a light chuckle. “I have to say, this place is… different from what I expected.”

Mikhail leaned back slightly, his hands folding together neatly. “Newcomers always say that. And yet, this place has remained unchanged for centuries.”

“Is that a good thing?” you asked.

Mikhail’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened ever so slightly. “That depends,” he murmured. “Do you fear change? Or do you fear the things that remain the same?”

The question was almost a test. He was watching—studying—your reaction.

You kept your smile in place. “I suppose it depends on whether the change is for the better.”

Mikhail’s gaze lingered on you for a few seconds longer before he finally leaned back again, his interest seemingly satisfied. “A fair answer.”

You couldn’t tell if he was pleased or disappointed.

For a brief moment, there was silence between you. The room was filling up with other students, the energy shifting from stillness to murmurs and movement.

You glanced at him again. “So, what do you do for fun?”

Mikhail let out a soft exhale—not quite a chuckle, but close. “Fun?” He said the word like it was foreign. Then, he turned his head slightly. “I suppose I enjoy rituals, prayers, making offerings.”

You arched a brow. “Sounds… fulfilling.”

His lips curled, just barely. “It is.”

He was fully aware that you were just playing along. And yet, he entertained the conversation anyway.

The unsettling part was that he wasn’t trying to convince you. There was no need.

Mikhail didn’t seek approval. He didn’t need validation.

Because he already believed in everything he said.

A/N: Ah! I totally forgot to add this—here’s a photo of their uniform in case you want to see it!