The first thing Shinjō Kura noticed about Ravenwood Academy was how quiet it was.
Not the kind of quiet you found in a library, or during exams. This was something heavier, like silence that pressed against the chest and lingered in the bones.
The academy sat high on a mountain ridge, far above the town below. From the gates, Kura could see the roofs of houses scattered like toys across the valley, and beyond them, the pale shimmer of the river winding through forests. In the afternoon sunlight, Ravenwood almost looked beautiful, like a castle from an old painting. But the locals had warned him: "Don't stay too late. The mountain changes after dark."
And already, as mist crept from the trees, Kura could believe it. The black stone walls loomed with gargoyle statues crouched along the roofline, their fanged mouths frozen in snarls. The iron gates groaned as they opened, reluctant, as though warning him not to enter.
Shinjō Kura was sixteen years old. He had sharp features that made him look older than he was, dark hair that fell across his forehead in uneven strands, and restless eyes that shifted too often, as though always scanning for danger. His frame was lean, almost wiry, the kind that came from long hours of walking alone rather than playing sports.
He wasn't from here. He wasn't even from this country.
Kura was born in Japan, but he hadn't called it home for years. His father's work—and his temper—had dragged the family across borders, city to city. His mother had disappeared when he was young, leaving behind only fragments of lullabies he sometimes dreamed about. His father was harsh, sometimes violent, the kind of man who demanded obedience but offered nothing in return. Kura had learned early to endure pain in silence.
Schools never welcomed him. At best, he was ignored. At worst, he was mocked for being "strange"—the quiet boy with dark eyes who never laughed at the right jokes. Whispers of "outcast" followed him like a second name. Ravenwood Academy was just another transfer, another set of whispers. He didn't expect it to be different.
But something in his gut told him it was.
Students filled the courtyard, their navy uniforms crisp, their shoes clicking neatly against the stone paths. Conversations faltered when they saw him. Heads turned, eyes lingered.
"Another transfer."
"Bet he won't last."
"Remember what happened to the last one?"
The murmurs cut off as soon as he glanced at them. Kura tightened his grip on the strap of his worn backpack and kept walking.
Inside, the corridors stretched unnaturally long. Tall windows looked out onto the mountain slope, where the afternoon sun painted everything gold. But he could imagine what it must look like in the early mornings, when fog swallowed the peaks, or at night, when the forest turned black and the shadows inside these halls would deepen into something alive.
The lockers that lined the walls were dented, scratched. Some bore strange symbols that weren't graffiti but looked more like claw marks. The lights buzzed above him, flickering faintly, as though the building itself was breathing.
Finally, he reached Room 2-C.
Sliding the door open, Kura felt the weight of twenty stares land on him at once.
"Class," the teacher said, his thin voice stretching into a smile too wide for his face. His glasses caught the light, hiding his eyes. "This is our new transfer student. Shinjō Kura. Please welcome him kindly."
The students didn't. A few nodded stiffly, but most turned away. The silence pressed harder.
The teacher gestured toward a desk by the window. "There. Beside Lila Frost."
Kura followed his gaze.
She was difficult to miss. Silver-blonde hair fell in soft waves around her pale face. Her eyes were the color of glacial water—too sharp, too cold for someone her age. She sat perfectly still, staring out the window as though the mountains outside whispered secrets only she could hear.
When Kura sat beside her, her gaze flicked to him. For a moment, he swore the temperature in the room dropped.
Whispers spread like a current through the classroom.
"Poor guy."
"Didn't anyone warn him?"
"She's cursed."
The lesson began. The scratching of chalk filled the silence. Kura tried to focus, but his eyes drifted toward the clock above the board.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
11:11.
The hands froze.
The hum of the lights cut out. The air thickened, pressing against his lungs. His pen slipped from his hand and rolled across the desk, stopping on its own. Around him, the students moved in jerky, puppet-like motions—smiles frozen, blinks delayed. The teacher's arm hung mid-stroke, chalk hovering as though suspended by invisible strings.
Kura's pulse roared in his ears. He turned to the only other person moving naturally.
Lila Frost.
Her blue eyes locked onto his. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, her voice low enough to bypass sound.
"You see it too… don't you?"
The clock lurched. The second hand ticked forward. The lights hummed back to life. The chalk screeched as the teacher resumed writing. The class carried on as though nothing had happened.
Only Kura sat frozen, his breath shallow.
And for the first time since he arrived, he realized something:
Ravenwood Academy wasn't just a school.
It was watching him.