"Abide by the rules if you value your life… I mean your studies."
Bold, permanent paint covered the words, meant to motivate whoever read them. That was the note he found on the board as he passed through the hallway, heading to the office for admission.
Given the school's reputation, the message sounded more threatening and directed at him than encouraging. He stared with a stiff expression.
'So, I'm really in Goldlef,' he thought.
He froze before the office door, his heart pounding wildly. This was the last step to finish his admission.
After a moment that felt eternal, he steeled himself and pushed 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, freckles scattered across his nose, rummaged through his suitcase. As he pulled out a pitiful blanket, he fixed an incredulous look on the student.
"This? You call this a thick blanket?" the teacher demanded, looking at Christan for answers. "You want to survive Goldlef's mountain nights with this?"
Christan looked at the blanket, the corners of his mouth twitching, unsure whether he should respond or apologize.
It was his own choice. He hadn't wanted a big one, thinking it would be a hassle to carry since it wouldn't even fit in his suitcase.
The teacher continued. "Suit yourself." He tossed the blanket back into the suitcase.
They said 'thick blanket,' but never said you'd freeze your lungs off without one. Now, what he brought felt useless against the cold he wasn't yet experienced with. He wished someone had warned him.
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.
As Christan approached, his fingers twitched, unsure whether to clear his throat or wait in the heavy silence to snap the man out of his 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.
Christan blinked. Scissors?
As far as he knew, scissors were for cutting. But what exactly needed to be cut on him? He imagined many possibilities, most of them bad.
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 crept to the cupboard in the corner, far from the desk where the teacher sat. 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 them with a distant look in his eyes.
For a moment, the world around him faded. The voices, the room—he felt completely alone.
Suddenly, he turned—just in time to see a blade swinging toward him. The sharp edge flashed in his wide hazel eyes as it sliced through the air.
His body reacted instantly. He recoiled, 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. He quickly looked away, took the scissors, and stepped forward.
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 Christan a strange glance, then exchanged a look with his colleague.
"Whatever you're imagining is what's going to happen." The teacher grinned, twirling the scissors. Then, he glanced down at the student.
He tensed. No one had warned him that this was how new students were treated. He took a step back.
"Come on, sit. No need to tire your tiny balls."
Christan's ears burned. He clenched his fists at his sides but said nothing.
He tried to stay calm but couldn't. They didn't seem to be joking. He felt like these teachers were monsters, welcoming students with humiliation and pain.
He looked between the two teachers, hoping one of them would stop this. But the other was just sipping his drink.
"Seriously?" the teacher asked in disbelief, staring at his face.
Then, he burst into laughter, laughing so hard he forgot where he was. Seeing Christan's worried expression only made him 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, he sat stiffly. Casually, the teacher lifted the scissors and sheared the tip of his hair.
Startled, he spun around 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 favorite style—the one he'd kept for years.
When it was finally over, he looked down. His hair strands covered his lap and the floor. 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 slowly picked up the strands from his lap and the floor, bitterness rising inside him.
They handed him a paper with the school's rules, schedules, a map, and a card showing his room.
Standing at the door outside the office, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Inside the office, the brown-skinned teacher's face tightened as he glanced at his colleague.
"Silas, you saw something. What was it?"
Silas faced him. "Not much. I just noticed he's sick." He remembered 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, trauma, or both.
He turned to his colleague. "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?"
Silas 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 Vance."