The black sedan rolled to a slow, deliberate stop at the edge of the campus, its engine humming like a distant warning. Zhane's heart thudded louder than the motor, each beat echoing in his chest like a countdown. He stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, and immediately felt the shift in the air—crisp, refined, almost too clean. It smelled like old money and expectations.
Pristine High loomed ahead, a towering monument of prestige and legacy. Its spires reached toward the sky like fingers grasping for perfection. The stone façade gleamed under the morning sun, every brick whispering stories of generations who had walked these halls before him.
Zhane tightened his grip on the suitcase handle, knuckles whitening. This was real. This was happening.
A full scholarship to Pristine High wasn't just an opportunity—it was a lifeline. A chance to rewrite the narrative of his life. But standing here, dwarfed by the grandeur of the school, all he could think was: Do I really belong here?
He wasn't a child of power. No legacy name. No trust fund. Just a boy from the edges of the city, armed with grit and grades.
Trying not to let the insecurity show, he inhaled deeply and stepped forward.
"You got this," he whispered to himself, voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves.
Inside, the school was a cathedral of elegance. Polished marble floors stretched endlessly, reflecting the overhead chandeliers like pools of light. The walls were lined with framed portraits of past students—regal, composed, perfect. Their eyes seemed to follow him, silently judging, silently measuring.
Each wore the royal blue and gold uniform with pride, their postures straight, their expressions carved from confidence.
Zhane's sneakers squeaked softly as he walked, the sound oddly loud in the hushed corridors. He reached the principal's office and paused before the tall wooden door, its surface etched with intricate designs that looked older than the school itself.
Okay. Let's do this.
Knock.
"Come in."
The voice was deep, commanding, and unmistakably used to being obeyed.
Zhane entered.
Principal Theodore Hale sat behind a wide oak desk, framed by towering bookshelves and a panoramic window that overlooked the flawless school grounds.
His silver-streaked hair was combed back with precision, his eyes sharp and calculating. His face was carved from authority, every line a testament to years of discipline.
"Zhane Willows, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," Zhane replied quickly, straightening instinctively.
"You scored remarkably well on our entrance exams. Quite impressive."
"Thank you, sir." Zhane's voice was steady, but inside, nerves crawled up his spine like cold fingers.
"This school," Hale continued, "is... unique. Many of your peers have been here since childhood. They come from backgrounds of influence. It may take time for you to adjust."
His tone was polite, but the subtext was clear. You're not one of them.
"I'll do my best, sir," Zhane said, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Hale slid a silver key across the desk. "West Hall, room 405. Your roommate is yet to arrive."
Zhane took the key with a quiet "thank you," the metal cool against his palm.
"One more thing," Hale added, voice dropping slightly. "Pristine holds its traditions in high regard. I trust you will uphold the school's reputation."
"Yes, sir. I will."
"Good. If you have any questions or need assistance, don't hesitate."
Zhane nodded and stepped out, the key clenched in his palm like the only solid thing keeping him grounded.
---★★
The walk across campus felt like drifting through a dream. The courtyard was a masterpiece—sculpted hedges shaped like mythical creatures, towering statues of founders and benefactors, and fountains that danced in perfect rhythm. Everything was beautiful. Too beautiful. It felt curated, like a museum exhibit.
Groups of students strolled past in their tailored uniforms, laughter echoing like bells. Their eyes flicked toward Zhane—some curious, some indifferent, others... dismissive.
He kept his head high. Today was his first day. He wouldn't let anything ruin it.
West Hall stood like a castle draped in ivy, its arched windows gleaming in the sunlight. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and polish. Mahogany doors lined the hallway, each one identical, each one hiding a story.
Room 405. End of the hall.
Zhane slid the key into the lock, braced himself, and stepped in.
The dorm room was surprisingly spacious. Twin beds on opposite sides, matching desks, wardrobes, and a large window that bathed everything in golden afternoon light. The silence was thick, almost sacred.
His roommate hadn't arrived.
Zhane shrugged and began unpacking. It gave him something to do, something to anchor himself. Clothes into the wardrobe. Books neatly lined on the desk. Bedsheets smoothed out with robotic precision. Each motion was deliberate, a ritual of control.
By the time he finished, twilight had settled in. The sky outside glowed violet and soft gold, casting long shadows across the room. The silence deepened, wrapping around him like a blanket.
Zhane undressed and crawled into bed, the mattress firm beneath his aching body. Maybe tomorrow things would feel normal. Maybe tomorrow he'd start to belong.
He closed his eyes.
A moment passed.
Then... he felt it.
A shift in the air.
The temperature dropped. The silence changed. It wasn't peaceful anymore—it was expectant.
Zhane opened his eyes, but the room was different. Dimmed. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls. The window glowed faintly, casting a pale light that barely reached the corners.
And then he saw it.
A figure.
Standing far away in black hooded clothing, its face obscured, but its eyes—red, glowing, unblinking—pierced through the darkness and locked onto him.
Zhane's breath hitched.
The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, half-formed by the soft glow, like a nightmare given shape.
"Uh… who are you?" Zhane's voice trembled.
No answer.
It didn't even flinch.
"Okay, seriously. You're kind of creeping me out."
Still nothing.
The silence was suffocating. The figure's silhouette was so still, so unnatural, it felt like something out of a horror movie. Not human. Not alive. Just... watching.
Then—her lips moved.
No sound.
Just the shape of a word.
One word.
"Run."
Zhane's breath caught in his throat.
What does that mean?
"What do you mean?" he whispered, voice barely audible.
No response.
Only a soft, eerie chuckle.
Not kind. Not friendly.
Something else.
Sinister.
Zhane jolted awake, heart pounding, breath ragged.
He couldn't move.
He almost couldn't breathe.
He sat there on the bed, frozen, listening to the rhythm of his breath. It wasn't normal. None of this was normal.
His heart pounded against his ribs like a warning drum. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that made sense.
Sleep felt like a distant hope.
He knew—deep in his bones—
Something was really wrong.
He could sense, no he could feel it, the chill wasn't gone .