The stage at the auditorium's heart held three figures, each a stark silhouette against the dark wood backdrop. In the center sat a man who could've leapt from a silver screen—Master Baron Bailey, his broad shoulders filling out a tailored suit of midnight blue, its fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light. His chiseled jaw and piercing gray eyes gave him an actor's polish, but a hardness lingered beneath, like a storm brewing behind a calm sea. To his left perched Doctor Gary Garrick, a wiry figure dwarfed by a pristine white lab coat, its pockets bulging with unseen tools. His nerdy glasses—round and thick—slid down his nose, magnifying eyes that darted with restless curiosity. On Baron's right lounged Ms. Iris Shayne, a vision straight from a glossy broadcast. Her short skirt hugged her hips, revealing smooth, endless legs that gleamed like polished ivory, while her sleeveless top—cut daringly low—flashed a glimpse of cleavage that drew whispers from the crowd. Papers rustled in their hands, a trio formidable and strange, their presence filling the vast space as they shuffled notes on the long table before them.
"Welcome, dear students, to Wilhelm Stubbe's High School for the Social Rejects," Baron's voice boomed, smooth and commanding, cutting through the shuffle of feet as the first-years streamed in. "It is my pleasure to have you all here today. Please, take your seats."
Green slipped into a velvet seat, the cushion sinking slightly under him, and the auditorium fell into a hush so deep it swallowed every breath. The silence pressed against his ears, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint crinkle of papers from the stage. He imagined a pin dropping—its tiny clatter would've echoed like thunder in this stillness.
After a pause that stretched like taut wire, Baron spoke again, his tone warm yet edged with steel. "Welcome once more, dear students, to this prestigious haven. Know this: our founder, Wilhelm Stubbe, was himself a castaway, scorned by a world that turns its back on the different. From that crucible of rejection, he forged this school—a sanctuary, free and fair, for those of us who stand apart from the common tide."
"Us?" Green thought, brow creasing. "He's one too? A social reject? He looks carved from perfection." Baron's poised frame and steady gaze betrayed no flaw, no hint of the outcast's burden.
"I am Master Baron Bailey," he continued, "general overseer of all new first-years." He paused, eyes sweeping the room. In a typical school, applause might've erupted, hands clapping for the grand title. But here, the students sat mute, their faces blank as stone, staring up at him.
"As expected," Baron thought, a flicker of amusement tugging at his lips before he pressed on. "To my left is Doctor Gary Garrick, our master of medicine and machines." Gary's response was a slow blink, his eyes shutting briefly before he nudged his glasses up with a precise flick of his index finger, the gesture mechanical, almost rehearsed.
"To my right, Ms. Iris Shayne, a teacher of rare grace." Iris tilted her head, her raven hair catching the light as she flashed a dazzling smile, her hand lifting in a wave that rippled through the crowd like a breeze over still water.
"We three steward the welfare of you first-years," Baron said. "Seek us out whenever the weight of this place presses upon you." He bent forward, lifting a thick file from the table, its edges worn from handling. "I trust you've all studied the prospectus—our rules, our laws. Heed them well. We are generous, benevolent even, but ruthless when defied. Among the sins we pardon, trespassing is not one. For the three years you dwell here, none may cross beyond these walls without the management's direct blessing. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Master Baron Bailey!" a voice shouted from the left.
"Yes, Master Baron!" another chimed from the right.
"Yes, Master Bailey!" a girl near Green called.
"Yes, Master!" a boy rasped from the back.
"Yes, Baron Bailey!" someone else barked, offbeat.
The responses collided, a chaotic buzz filling the auditorium like bees swarming a hive. Baron inhaled deeply, his chest swelling beneath the suit, and raised a hand. "Call me Master Baron."
Green caught a twitch on Doctor Gary's face—a slight frown, lips pursing as if tasting something bitter. "Yes, Master Baron!" the students chorused, voices aligning at last.
"That's better," Baron said, a satisfied nod punctuating his words before he pressed on. "Within these walls, all you need for a full life awaits—malls with gleaming storefronts, recreation fields echoing with laughter, sacred spaces for quiet reflection. Name it, and it's here. Yet you'll learn the value of coin, for not all comes free. Our currency, the 'Stub,' buys what necessity demands. Earn it through sharp minds in class—asking, answering—or through triumphs in games and crafts. Even hidden quests offer rewards, though their secrets rest with us alone."
"Hidden quests?" Green's mind snagged on the phrase, curiosity prickling like static.
As if sensing the unspoken question, Baron added, "Hidden quests are just that—veiled tasks, their nature known only to the school's keepers. Seek them if you dare." His gaze sharpened, then softened. "Each of you will wear an identity watch, a marvel of craft. It bears your name, your class, your story as we know it. It's your wallet too—your Stubs tallied within, traded with a tap. And should you wander this vast domain, its map will guide you home. Tomorrow, you'll see your classrooms, your halls. For now, rest in your dorms—tomorrow's orientation awaits."
A hand shot up from the sea of seats, a boy with tousled brown hair rising as Baron nodded. "Yes?"
"When do we get our identity cards?" the boy asked, voice steady but loud.
Baron's lips quirked. "A fine question. At the doors stand our staff. Slip on the watch, and it will scan you—your details, your Stub balance, all there. Each first-year begins with 100 Stubs, a gift to start your journey."
"Any other questions?" Baron scanned the room, but silence held firm, no ripple disturbing the crowd. "Then you are dismissed."
Green rose, joining the tide of students flowing toward the exits. His heart thudded, a wild rhythm of relief and wonder. For the first time, he stood in a place where eyes didn't bore into him with disgust, where whispers didn't trail his green hair like shadows. The auditorium's vastness faded behind him as he stepped into the corridor, its walls lined with smooth stone and faint etchings of vines. Workers in gray uniforms handed out watches—sleek bands of black metal, screens glowing faintly. He slipped one on, its cool surface hugging his wrist, and a soft hum pulsed as it lit up: Green, Class 1-A, 100 Stubs. A map flickered beside it, the school sprawling in miniature—towers, courtyards, dorms. He traced the path with his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Here, he thought, he might finally belong.