The sky wept over Vermillion City as if mourning something long buried. Raindrops traced rivers down the windows of the black car carrying Jimin through cobbled streets and wrought-iron gates. A mist clung to the roads like a living thing, curling around lamp posts and choking the last hints of daylight.
Jimin sat quietly, fingers clutching his suitcase in his lap. He wore the new uniform: crisp navy jacket with silver trim, and the heavy weight of a family name he barely knew pinned to his chest.
Park Jimin.Engaged.Transfer student.Pawn.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to stay at the estate until graduation — quiet, hidden, obedient. But fate, or politics, had pulled strings, and now he was enrolled at the infamous Vermillion Academy for the Sons of Power.
The car pulled to a stop. The butler beside him opened the door with a stiff bow.
"Welcome to Vermillion, Young Master."
Jimin stepped out into the rain. The academy towered before him — gothic spires, cold stone archways, windows like slitted eyes. It didn't look like a school. It looked like a mausoleum.
And it felt like it was watching him.
The halls were too quiet.
Jimin's footsteps echoed as he followed the head prefect down the corridor. Every painting along the wall had eyes that followed him, ancient ancestors with frozen scowls. The floorboards creaked under velvet carpet, and chandeliers hung like upside-down cages overhead.
"You'll be in Room 317," the prefect said without looking at him. "Top floor of the East Wing. No curfews broken, no guests past midnight, and no unsanctioned contact with upperclassmen unless assigned. Understood?"
Jimin nodded. His voice felt trapped in his throat.
As they passed a spiral staircase, a breeze like frost licked his neck. He paused.
Someone was watching him.
From the upper landing, a figure stood — all black uniform, tousled dark hair, and cold eyes that burned like dying embers. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable.
Jimin's breath caught.
The boy's gaze didn't waver. He didn't blink.
Then, silently, he turned and walked away.
Later that evening, Jimin unpacked in silence. The room was beautiful in a lonely, antique way — high ceilings, arched windows, and a single bed with blood-red sheets. His fingers traced the edge of the silver crest above the headboard: a phoenix entwined with a dagger.
A soft knock came at the door.
He opened it slowly.
A girl — sharp eyes, white gloves, notebook in hand.
"I'm Ahn Sori," she said. "Student council secretary. I've been assigned to assist you for your first week." She paused, glancing at the room. "You got the Phoenix suite. Interesting."
"Is that... good?"
She gave a cryptic smile. "Depends who's watching you."
That night, as the rain deepened and lightning split the sky, Jimin stood by the window, watching shadows move across the courtyard.
Somewhere behind him, in another tower, someone else stood at a window too — a boy with ink-stained fingers and ash in his lungs.
And though they hadn't spoken, their hearts were already whispering:
"I know you."