The first morning of school in the city began with rain.
Thin droplets clung to the glass of the car as it rolled past rows of students dressed in neat uniforms. The academy was famous — a school for the elite, for future heirs and prodigies.
Emily sat in the backseat, chin resting lightly on her hand, watching the blur of umbrellas outside.
"Miss Emily," the driver said carefully, "the headmaster will meet you at the gate."
"Thank you," she murmured, stepping out as the rain eased. The moment her shoes touched the pavement, whispers began.
> "That's her — the real daughter."
"I heard she grew up in the countryside."
"She doesn't look like it. She's too calm."
Emily ignored the voices. The world around her felt distant, like a movie she wasn't meant to be in.
As she walked toward the school gates, a familiar voice called her name — bright and sweet.
"Emily! Over here!"
Clara stood near the entrance, waving, her smile flawless. Cameras flashed; students stopped to stare. Clara looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine — perfect hair, perfect uniform, perfect pretense.
"I wanted to walk in with you," Clara said, slipping her arm through Emily's as though they were the closest of sisters. "Everyone's so excited to meet you."
Emily's lips curved faintly. "I can tell."
They walked together down the hallway — one glowing with charm, the other with quiet elegance.
To anyone watching, it looked like harmony. But those who watched closely saw it: the small tension between every step.
By lunch, the story had spread.
That Emily was cold.
That Clara was trying her best to be kind.
That the real daughter didn't appreciate her sister's efforts.
Rumors bloomed like poison ivy — soft, quick, invisible.
---
That afternoon, a school assembly was held in the auditorium.
Emily sat quietly among the crowd, her expression unreadable. The principal was announcing a new collaborative project between the academy and the film department — a drama production that would be broadcast nationally.
The guest speaker walked in, flanked by a few teachers.
The moment his name echoed across the speakers, the students gasped.
> "Today, we welcome actor Perry Lang, our honorary mentor."
Emily's gaze lifted slowly.
He walked onto the stage, wearing a simple black coat, his expression composed yet unreadable. His presence filled the room effortlessly — calm, confident, dangerous in a quiet way.
His eyes scanned the crowd briefly… and stopped when they met hers.
The faintest flicker — recognition.
He continued speaking, his voice deep and smooth. "Acting isn't about pretending," he said. "It's about understanding the truth behind the mask."
Then his gaze drifted past her — toward Emily.
He didn't call her name. He didn't approach. But his eyes lingered, sharp and questioning.
As Emily turned to leave, a faint hum rippled through her bracelet again. Her instincts whispered that someone — or something — had brushed the edge of her aura.