Class is already over," R-23 said. "Although it is your first day, punctuality is still expected. Please refrain from being late in the future."
It clasped its hands behind its back.
"And remember," it added, "all students within a group must enter together. Failure to do so will result in the entire group being marked late."
That didn't sound optional.
"Every student is required to proceed to the gymnasium on the second floor for today's campus tour," R-23 continued. "I will reconvene with you afterward to explain the final—and most significant—rule."
It paused.
Then raised its hand.
A thumbs-up.
The gesture felt wrong coming from it. Too human. Too rehearsed.
Without another word, it turned and exited the classroom. The door slid shut behind it with a soft, final click.
For a moment, none of us moved.
The silence settled in as everything finally sank in.
This was... a lot.
I'd expected this school to be competitive. Brutal. The kind of place where only the best survived—constant exams, rankings, pressure. Only talented individuals were accepted here. People who had already proven they were exceptional.
But this?
No classes. No real instructors. No curriculum.
Just us.
Why seek out talented students at all? If all we had to do was talk—build relationships—what did talent even matter?
Unless talent wasn't the point.
Unless they were testing something else.
I couldn't decide how I felt.
Part of me was disappointed. Almost cheated. I'd prepared myself for pressure—for competition—for failure.
And yet...
Another part of me felt strangely relieved.
All we had to do was talk for a year.
No exams. No rankings.
In return, we'd be handed a future most people could only dream of.
That should've made me happy.
So why did it feel like I was walking deeper into something I didn't understand?
And why did that last rule—the one R-23 hadn't told us yet—feel like the real reason we were here?
Charlotte pushed her chair back and stood.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"Everyone," she said, and the room listened. "I know this situation is frustrating. Confusing. Maybe even scary."
She looked at each of us in turn.
"But logically, this doesn't have to be bad," she continued. "If we all get along—even if we have to pretend at first—this is basically a long vacation. One year. No exams. No competition. And at the end, we get a ridiculous amount of benefits."
Some of the tension eased.
"And if they don't keep their end of the bargain," Charlotte added, her tone sharpening, "I will sue."
That got a reaction.
"I'll have nineteen witnesses," she said calmly. "Contracts were signed. Promises were made. If this academy is a fraud, they won't get away with it."
She sat back down like she'd stated a fact—not a threat.
The room felt different after that.
Not relaxed.
Steadier.
I felt it too.
Law. Of course. Charlotte spoke like someone who already knew how to corner people with their own words.
If this place really was lying... we had someone who could tear it apart.
Jax broke the moment with a laugh.
"You're not wrong," he said. "This place feels like a cage—but if the payout's real, it might be worth it."
"Yeah," Isabella added, a small smile breaking through. "At least we've got our dependable, fascinating, future lawyer to protect us if this turns out to be a scam."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Over-compliment much?"
"I don't know," Amber said quietly. "Something's off. And we still haven't heard the final rule."
"Aren't you supposed to be Ms. Positivity?" Isabella asked.
"You assigned me that," Amber shot back.
Marcus crossed his arms. "Any guesses on what the last rule is?"
"Maybe something with technology," I said. "They haven't mentioned our phones."
"Oh, I swear to God," Isabella groaned. "If they take my phone—"
"I was thinking dorms," Marcus said. "The application just said housing was 'covered.'"
"Oh no," Isabella said, pressing her hands together. "Please don't be co-ed."
"Same," Marcus replied. "I don't want to deal with you every morning."
"Excuse me?"
The tension cracked.
Theories flew—phones, surveillance, curfews, dorms. Speculation turned into conversation. Conversation softened into something more personal.
Isabella checked out once it got too real.
Amber, on the other hand, filled the space.
"I run a shop in Livarna," she said cheerfully. "It's small. My siblings help when it gets busy."
"You have siblings?" I asked.
"Eight brothers. Three sisters."
"Holy shit," Marcus said.
Amber laughed.
Jax leaned back, glancing at me. "So—why the sudden curiosity? You don't strike me as the type."
I hesitated. "Why music, Jax? I didn't expect that."
He went quiet—not awkward. Thoughtful.
"I've loved it since I was a kid," he said. "Sleepover at Charlotte's place, years ago. I heard Miss Isabella singing outside. She didn't know anyone was listening."
Charlotte blinked. "You remember that?"
"Yeah. The melody stuck with me. But more than that—it was the emotion. The freedom." He scratched the back of his neck. "People always said I looked intimidating. Music felt like a way to say things I couldn't."
The room was quiet when he finished.
The listening kind.
"That's incredible," Amber said softly.
Charlotte nodded.
"Honestly?" Marcus grinned. "That's kind of badass."
Jax groaned. "You're all gonna make me blush."
I glanced at Isabella. She was facing the window, but I could tell.
She was smiling.
For a moment, it felt normal.
Like we were just students killing time. Like this was any other first day.
Then the chime sounded.
Clear. Sharp.
R-23's voice followed.
"Attention all students. All groups are to assemble in the gymnasium immediately. The campus tour will now begin."
The room went quiet—piece by piece.
Laughter died. Conversations faded. Whatever fragile normalcy we'd built shattered.
I felt it then.
The reminder.
This wasn't accidental.
Just as we started opening up—just as we forgot where we were—they pulled us back.
Together.
As a group.
I stood with the others, my chair scraping softly against the floor.
Whatever the final rule was—
whatever waited for us after the tour—
I had a feeling this was the last moment we'd get to feel like ordinary people.