The bus buzzed with chatter until a voice cut through it, "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, and let a deep sigh.
The sour stench of fuel hit his nostrils, thick and nauseating, adding to his dizziness from the motion sickness. He slightly opened the window, looking outside.
Trees blurred past like ghosts. The road stretched endlessly, and he wasn't sure what was worse—asking the driver to stop, or continuing on 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 until the veins bulged.
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 behaviour 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, wishing they would stop talking. 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 she had always been. 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 pit. 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. His breath caught as the iron gate came into view through the window. He froze, just staring outside with wide eyes.
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 suffocating stench of diesel, lingering from the entire ride, only 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. No more escaping. The thought made his stomach twist.
He looked at the long brick fence, but all he saw were tall trees—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 his gaze to his mother. He didn't want to go through that gate, but his mother walked forward in hurried fashion.
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 hairs stood up on the back of his neck under the guard's lingering stare. He quickly averted his gaze. 'What was with that look?' he wondered uneasily.
Then, the guard turned back to his mother.
"This is my son," she told him with confidence. "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 started walking along the brick road as directed, his mother pushing the suitcase and he carried a backpack. The campus stretched on endlessly. Five minutes of walking, and still they hadn't reached the office. His brows furrowed deeper with each step.
Mansions with verandas, their buildings old with colonial architecture, well-trimmed gardens, quiet and calm as if nothing was wrong with the place. They didn't look like offices. More like old staff residences.
He hated to admit it, but the deeper they went, the more he noticed how beautiful the school was inside. 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 had 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 faster his heart raced, but he tried hard to maintain his composure.
"Got some looks, though."
Then, one voice, smooth and lazily 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?"
He heard him, and for a heartbeat, his steps halted. He could feel all those eyes peering into his skin.
"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.