"Abide by the rules if you value your life… I mean your studies."
That was the note he found on the board as he passed through the hallway, heading to the office for admission. The words were written in bold, unremovable paint, as if they were meant to be encouraging.
However, with the reputation of the school, the words felt more like threats.
A shiver ran down his spine. The way it read made it feel like someone was speaking directly to him, rather than just leaving a simple note. He stared with a stiff expression, unease twisting in his stomach.
"So, I'm really in Goldlef," he thought.
He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm his nerves. Tales of strict rules, cruel teachers, and students from juvenile detention echoed in his mind. This school wasn't for just anyone.
And yet, here he was. He'd never been in juvenile detention, but for some reason, he was here.
He had hoped everything he heard was exaggerated, but seeing that note crushed his doubt.
He stood before the office door, heart pounding. This was the final step he needed to complete his admission.
After a moment that felt eternal, he summoned the courage to push the door open.
Inside, there were several chairs and long tables, indicating that multiple teachers shared the office. However, only two figures were present.
A man in his early thirties with scattered freckles on his nose was rummaging through his suitcase. As he pulled out a pitiful blanket, he shot an incredulous look at the student.
"This? You call this a thick blanket?" he asked, glancing at the boy for answers.
The school was located near the mountains, and it got extremely cold, especially at night. That was why the joining instructions specifically told students to bring a thick duvet.
Students often ignored that requirement—one of them being the boy standing before him.
He looked at the blanket. He couldn't blame anyone; after all, it had been his own calculated move. He hadn't wanted a big one, thinking it would be a hassle to carry since it wouldn't even fit in his suitcase.
Now, standing before a man who seemed like the embodiment of Goldlef's stern warnings, a wave of shame washed over him.
"Are you here to freeze to death?" the teacher continued. "Be our guest, then."
The teacher's words echoed in his mind as he turned away. He'd taken the instructions lightly because they hadn't explained why certain things were required.
His gaze shifted to the other teacher—a brown-skinned man lounging casually with his legs draped over the table.
He was laughing at his phone, a one-sided dimple deepening with every chuckle.
As the boy approached, he wondered how he was supposed to snap the man out of his little world. However, before he could do anything, the teacher turned to him.
"Open that drawer. You'll find a pair of scissors." Then, he returned to his phone.
He hesitated, processing the request. Scissors?
As far as he knew, scissors were for cutting. But what exactly needed to be cut on him? His imagination ran wild with possibilities—most of them unpleasant.
He'd already been warned that this school was hell. Would it really be strange if his worst fears turned out to be true?
He turned and moved to the cupboard. Slowly, he opened the drawer with trembling fingers. There it was, a sharp silver pair of scissors, just like the teacher said.
It was supposed to be just that. However, the way the sharpness caught the light made his breath hitch.
He was supposed to hand them over, but instead, he remained frozen, staring at them. His fingers traced over the edge with a distant look in his eyes.
For a moment, the world around him faded. The voices, the room—everything felt distant. He felt completely alone.
Suddenly, he turned—just in time to see a blade swinging toward him. The sharp edge reflected in his wide hazel eyes as it sliced through the air.
His body reacted instantly. He stepped back, heart slamming against his ribs.
But then—nothing. He blinked.
The blade was gone. The office looked exactly the same as before. The brown-skinned teacher was still glued to his phone.
He turned, breathing hard, to face the other teacher. Their eyes met. That teacher was watching him intently. The boy immediately looked away, grabbed the scissors, and moved.
The brown-skinned teacher, noticing his colleague's tense expression, followed his gaze.
He saw the student approaching with the scissors in hand. The teacher accepted them but gave the boy a strange look, wondering what his colleague had seen.
"Whatever you're imagining is what's going to happen." The teacher grinned, twirling the scissors. Then, he glanced down at the student.
The boy tensed. No one had ever told him this was what happened to students who enrolled here. He took a step back.
"Come on, sit. No need to tire your tiny balls."
He tried to stay composed but failed. They didn't seem to be joking. His imagination was proving to be true—these monsters welcomed their students with humiliation and pain.
His heart raced. He looked between the two teachers, hoping one of them would stop this. But the other was just sipping his drink.
He stepped back.
"Seriously?" the teacher asked in disbelief, staring at his face. Then, he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he forgot he was in the office.
Judging by the student's expression, it was easy to guess what he had imagined, which only made the teacher laugh harder.
"What a day!" He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Come and sit already. I have a lot to do. Ah, and don't worry—nothing you're thinking is going to happen. Everything will be intact when you leave here."
With a conflicted mix of relief and hesitation, the boy sat stiffly. Casually, the teacher lifted the scissors and snipped the tip of his hair.
Startled, he turned abruptly.
"Long hair suits you. But not here," the teacher said, continuing to cut without concern.
He turned forward and let the teacher do whatever he wished with his hair. His chest tightened as the strands of his long auburn hair dropped to the floor.
He was going to lose his favourite style—the one he'd kept for years. He sat still, jaw clenched, watching as more hair fell away.
When it was finally over, he looked down. The strands lay scattered across his lap and the floor. He picked them up slowly.
And for the first time since stepping into this school, he felt something deeper than fear.
He felt anger.
His long hair, which had reached his shoulders, was trimmed to ear level. He picked up the strands from his lap bitterly, then the floor, and walked out.
Standing at the door, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Inside the office, the brown-skinned teacher's expression hardened as he looked at his colleague.
"Reed, you saw something. What was it?"
Reed turned to him. "Not much. I just noticed… he's sick," Reed recalled how strangely the boy had acted when he went to get the scissors.
At first, he froze with a distant look in his eyes. Then he suddenly turned, staring into empty air with an intense gaze, as if he were in some kind of danger.
No doubt he was seeing something no one else could—which meant one of two things: hallucination or trauma.
He turned to his fellow. "Lauren, did I tell you he'll be your student?"
"What? Why does it have to be me? Doesn't my class already have enough trouble?"
Reed shrugged and took a sip of his juice, looking completely unbothered.
"What was his name again?" Lauren asked, deciding he needed to keep a close eye on the boy from now on.
"Christan... Christan Vance."