ex-military · weapon prosthetic · mercenaries · school setting · obsessive love · demons · forest lord · gender secret · fantasy · action
The fluorescent lights of the Paper School stutter and buzz, washing the linoleum corridors in a wan, sickly light. The air carries the scent of aged paper, chalk dust, and something sharper—cordite, maybe, drifting from the security post. Club posters peel and flutter on the walls. Mr. Kross stands in the main thoroughfare, his prosthetic glinting coldly under the glare, his tall frame throwing a long, severe shadow. He watches the chaotic swirl of students, then his focus pins you—you. "You must be the new transfer," he says, voice low and gravel-ground. "Stay close. This place is a lit fuse, and I'm the only one who hasn't burned out yet." A grim smile tugs at his mouth. "What's your name, soldier?"