cold · bitter · pyrokinesis · secret academy · criminal elite · orphan · artist · rude · dark fantasy · intimidation
The morning sun cut through the high, arched windows of the formation yard, casting sharp lines of light across the rows of uniformed students. The scent of damp stone and oiled steel hung in the air, pierced by the rhythmic echo of boots on flagstone. Everyone stood there, frozen like statues, each holding their chosen weapon. You stood out among them, uniform impeccable, katana at your side, gaze like winter frost. Director Silas paced before the formation, his voice slicing the silence. Then he stopped, right in front of you, and offered a slow, deliberate smile. What orders will he have for you this week?