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I wasn't used to uniforms. Not like this, anyway. Back in England, they were stricter—ties tight enough to cut off your breath and shoes polished like you were marching to war. The Nevermore version was looser: blazer, button-up, slacks, all in charcoal tones with that violet crest on the chest. I still felt like I was wearing someone else's skin.

I tugged at the collar as I made my way to the commissary, shoulder bag slung across me, hoping the coffee here wasn't as bitter as the jet lag still swimming behind my eyes.

The halls buzzed with students—some fresh-faced and chattering, others too cool to care. Some... not exactly human. I kept my eyes forward, avoiding the stares I felt brushing against me like static. My empathy wasn't screaming yet, but it was a low hum under my skin. Like it knew something was coming.

The commissary doors opened with a creak that was definitely too dramatic for a dining hall. I stepped in, eyes scanning rows of mismatched tables, students grouped by species, cliques, and maybe social ranking—I didn't know the rules yet.

I just wanted coffee.

I joined the breakfast line quietly, grabbing a tray. Scrambled eggs, toast, and some suspiciously gray sausage. My stomach turned at the sight of it, but I needed something to ground me.

Voices buzzed around me.

"...he's the new guy."

"...from England, I think."

"...heard he doesn't talk to anyone."

I clenched my jaw, pretending not to hear, even though I couldn't stop hearing. The empathy sharpened, like picking up a dozen open channels at once. Curiosity, envy, mild amusement. It wasn't hostile. Not yet.

I found an empty corner table and sat down, head low, eating slowly. A kid with bat wings flew overhead. Someone across the room sneezed purple mist. A girl walked by with her hair literally flickering like a candle.

And there I was. Just the psychic loner with a gray streak and a loaded past, trying to survive breakfast.

Welcome to Nevermore.

After choking down something that vaguely resembled food and caffeine that tasted like burnt tree bark, I dumped my tray and checked the schedule Coach Vlad shoved into my bag last night. First class: Botany. Conservatory wing.

Great. Dirt and plants.

I moved through the hallways, navigating by instinct more than memory, and still arrived five minutes late. The glass dome of the Conservatory loomed like a jungle greenhouse. I pushed the door open quietly, hoping I could just blend in—

"Ah! Just in time."

Damn.

The teacher—a tall, wiry woman with vine-patterned glasses and a voice that could command a forest—gestured me forward. "Class, I'd like you to meet our newest transfer student."

All heads turned.

I didn't move at first, but her eyes narrowed like she'd start deducting points from my soul, so I stepped up.

"This is Noah Nighsel," she continued. "He'll be joining us for the semester. Mr. Nighsel, any words?"

I blinked. That was the teacher. Expecting me to say something. Anything.

A few students raised their eyebrows, some leaned forward like I was going to drop a monologue. My brain short-circuited somewhere between "uh" and "no."

"...Hi," I finally said. "I'm Noah. From England."

"Wonderful," the teacher chirped, clearly overestimating the impact of that stellar introduction. "There's a seat open next to Xavier—right over there."