"Nico, you're late! Hurry up, or you'll miss the bus!" my mom hollers from the kitchen, her voice sharp enough to cut through the walls.
"I am hurrying!" I yell back, fumbling with my backpack straps as if they're conspiring against me. My shoelaces tie wrong, my suitcase handle sticks, and every second feels like the universe is laughing at me.
My name is Nico Castellen, and apparently, today is the day I get shipped off to Hollow Root Academy—the strictest private school anyone's ever heard of. How I ended up here is… well, a long story. Let's just say I have a bad habit of poking my nose into places it doesn't belong. Secrets, locked doors, whispered conversations—I can't help myself. And now, instead of freedom, I'm staring down a future of curfews, detention rooms, and teachers who probably measure smiles with rulers.
I drag my suitcase to the door, its wheels rattling against the floorboards. My mom stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, trying to look stern, but her eyes give away something else—worry, maybe even guilt. She doesn't say it, but I know she thinks this place will "fix" me.
Outside, the first bus waits, its engine coughing like an old smoker. The driver honks, a long, impatient blast that makes my stomach twist. I climb aboard, the smell of gasoline and cracked vinyl filling my nose. This bus is ordinary—kids heading to regular schools, some staring at their phones, others just zoning out. I press my forehead against the window, watching the houses blur past, each one slipping away like pieces of my life being erased.
The ride ends at the central station, a place I've only ever seen from the outside. The driver jerks his thumb toward the row of buses lined up like tired soldiers. "Transfer here," he mutters.
I drag my suitcase down the steps, gravel crunching under my sneakers. The second bus waiting for me is different—bigger, sleeker, painted in deep green with the Hollow Root crest stamped on the side. It looks less like public transport and more like a prison wagon dressed up to impress parents.
A cluster of students gathers near the door, some already in crisp uniforms, others clutching luggage like me. Their voices buzz with nervous energy, half excitement, half dread.
I climb aboard, and the difference hits me immediately. The seats are stiff but clean, the air smells faintly of polish, and the driver wears a uniform with the academy's emblem stitched on his sleeve. This isn't just a bus—it's the first step into their world.
As the bus pulls away, the city fades into rolling hills and thick woods. The chatter dies down, replaced by the hum of the engine and the weight of what's waiting for us. Hollow Root Academy isn't just another school—it's a place with rules carved into stone, curfews that choke the night, and a detention room that swallows rule-breakers whole.
Two buses, two worlds. The first one carried me away from home. The second one is carrying me straight into whatever Hollow Root Academy plans to make of me.
And I can't shake the feeling that once I step off this bus, my life won't ever be the same.