"Is that kid wearing Goldleaf school uniforms?" a woman asked, narrowing her eyes.
The boy she pointed at glanced down at the red uniform clinging to him, his jaw tightening.
The stench of fuel hit him; he slightly opened the window for relief.
Trees blurred past, the road endless, and he wasn't sure what was worse—stopping the bus or heading toward his nightmare.
The woman scoffed, "Sending him there? What a joke! I bet you forced him—just like I did with my son."
'Forced, huh?' The word repeated in his mind. Was he forced? Of course, no sane person would ever choose to go there.
The woman beside the boy threw a glance at her son, but he didn't seem to care about what the woman was saying.
He looked blank, but his slender fingers, twisted together in his lap, tightened.
What was the point of her saying that? It wasn't like it would change anything.
"No need to scare her," a middle-aged man interjected from the front. "My son used to attend the same school. His behavior changed for the better. It's a good school if your son gives you a headache."
'Better? What the hell did that mean? Like learning how to obey? Scream quieter?'
"Hah!" The woman scoffed again, folding her arms. "You messed up raising your kid and think a school's gonna fix that? That place shouldn't even be called a school. Can't believe the government allows such a thing to exist," she said, her hatred for the school thick in her tone.
"Because they tried shutting it down," the man replied. "And do you know what happened? Parents refused. They wanted the school to stay exactly as it is."
He frowned as the two continued, 'Is it hard not to talk?'
He didn't think the woman was helping; if anything, she made it worse. As for the man's words—a headache?
He looked at his mother's reflection in the window. She looked younger in appearance than in years. With her smooth skin and neatly tied brown hair, she looked more like an older sister than a mother.
Her expression remained calm as always. The more he stared, the more he noticed a flicker of a smile.
He frowned, looking at her. What exactly was she smiling about?
She didn't look like someone about to send her son to such a hellish place. He should've known—even if the bus burst into flames, she would still drag him to that damn place.
The bus came to a stop. He froze, staring outside at the iron gate through the window.
He wanted to stay in that seat forever, even with the nausea. But the bus door hissed open, and reality snapped back. That wouldn't change anything.
His mother nudged him. "We're here." Then she was the first to rise from her seat, taking the suitcase with her. He wished she'd hesitate—but she didn't.
As the bus pulled away behind them, he stood outside, his body unsteady from dizziness. The stench of diesel, lingering from the entire ride, worsened his headache.
He wished more than anything that the bus had stopped earlier, and now he wished he was still on it, away from here.
He looked at the huge iron gate, like a prison, with painted characters glaring at him: Goldleaf Advanced Secondary School. Beneath it, the motto mocked him: Education is to Learn.
The moment he saw the name, the realization hit him—he was really going to Goldleaf. The rumors he had heard echoed louder in his head: harsh punishments, students fresh out of juvenile detention, and teachers who crushed them.
Whether they were true or not didn't matter—people didn't invent that kind of fear without reason. And he was going to be the proof of it.
Beyond the long brick fence, only tall trees stood—almost a forest. No buildings in sight. Even the surroundings outside the school were rural, with only a few houses visible here and there.
He turned to his mother. He didn't want to go through that gate, but his mother walked forward briskly.
Beside the gate was a small cabin. Inside sat an old man whose hair had turned completely grey, dressed in a blue guard uniform. He seemed too old to be a guard, yet there he was.
"Good morning," his mother greeted politely.
The guard looked up. "Morning."
He glanced at the boy.
The guard's stare lingered. He quickly averted his gaze. 'What was with that look?'
Then, the guard turned back to his mother.
"This is my son," she told him. "He is going to attend this school."
"Sign him in," said the guard, handing her a book. "And follow this road. Leads straight to the office."
"Thank you."
They followed the brick road as directed, his mother pushing the suitcase and he carrying a backpack. The campus stretched on endlessly. Five minutes of walking, and they hadn't reached the office. His brows furrowed deeper with each step.
Mansions with verandas, their buildings old-fashioned as if from another era, well-trimmed gardens, quiet and calm like nothing was wrong. They didn't look like offices. More like old staff residences.
He hated to admit it, but the deeper they walked, the more the place surprised him. It was… beautiful. Still, it wasn't enough to ease his nervousness.
Soon, his eyes narrowed as he read the words atop the long stone building: Administration Block.
It was morning, which seemed good to him as he wouldn't draw attention while students were in classes. However, in the office corridor, a couple of students roamed around.
Looking at them, he expected scars, bruises, and defiant glares. But no, they looked normal, like typical students—except for the strange gazes they threw at him, cold and sizing him up.
"Look at what just crawled in," someone sneered nearby as he walked through the corridor.
"What is he even doing here?"
Another student chuckled. "I think someone lied to him about how this school works. Let's bet on how long he'll survive here."
The more he listened, the harder he tried to maintain his composure.
"Got some looks, though."
Then, one voice, smooth and lazy, cut through the chatter.
"Aren't you guys forgetting something?"
The group turned to a boy with raven-black hair leaning against the wall, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Everyone here has a reason," the boy calmly said, his gaze fixed on the newcomer, studying him with interest.
His voice was loud, as if he were talking directly to him, then, with a trace of amusement, he added, "What'd you screw up?"
For a heartbeat, his steps halted.
"Come on, spill it. What'd you do to end up in this hellhole?"
"Maybe he's just stupid," someone chimed in, earning laughs from the others.
'What did I mess up, huh?'
Was it when he failed to live up to her dream grades? Was it when he was bullied? Or when he never made friends?
Even he didn't know—or maybe he pretended not to. But that didn't matter now. He was here with no going back, and whatever was waiting inside, he had no choice but to face it.