Nathalie decided, with impressive certainty for someone who had been in a new world for less than a day, that this place was fundamentally broken.
Not in a charming, "quirky rules but secretly meaningful" kind of way.
No.
This was the kind of broken that made you question the sanity of whoever designed it.
"…Walk."
Nathalie didn't look up. She kept staring straight ahead, eyes half-lidded, still mentally replaying the moment a chair had disintegrated beneath her like it had simply lost the will to exist.
"I am walking."
"Not like that."
That made her stop.
Slowly—very slowly—she turned her head.
"What," she asked, voice dangerously calm, "does that even mean?"
The girl beside her—tall, composed, and somehow managing to look elegant even while breathing—didn't hesitate.
"Your posture is incorrect. Your steps are too heavy. Your presence is… disruptive."
Nathalie blinked once.
"…My presence is disruptive."
"Yes."
She nodded, as if that was a completely reasonable statement.
Nathalie stared at her for a full three seconds, then let out a short laugh.
"Right. Of course. My presence. Not the fact that I literally fell out of the sky, bounced through dimensions, set someone on fire, and broke furniture. No, it's my walking that's the issue."
The girl didn't react.
Of course she didn't.
"Adjust," she said simply.
Nathalie looked down at herself—the dress, still uncomfortable, still wrong—and then back up.
"…I'm going to trip."
"You will not."
"I will absolutely trip."
"You will learn."
"That sounds like a threat again."
"It is not."
"It really is."
They continued down the corridor anyway.
The place was… unsettling.
Not because it was dark or dangerous.
Because it was too perfect.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows at precise angles. The floors reflected everything without a single flaw. Even footsteps echoed in neat, controlled rhythms, like the building itself demanded order.
It made Nathalie's skin itch.
"…Does anyone here just, I don't know, relax?" she muttered.
"No."
"Fantastic."
They stopped in front of a pair of double doors.
Gold-trimmed.
Of course.
Nathalie crossed her arms. "Let me guess. More rules?"
"Refinement."
"That's worse."
The doors opened.
Inside—
Nathalie blinked.
"…No."
The room was wide, open, and almost entirely empty—except for a group of students standing in neat lines.
Each of them had a book balanced on their head.
None of them were holding it.
None of them were struggling.
They just… stood there.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly balanced.
Like statues.
"No," Nathalie repeated, taking a step back. "I refuse."
"You are required."
"I opt out."
"That is not an option."
A book was placed in her hands.
She stared at it like it had personally insulted her.
"You want me," she said slowly, "to put this on my head… and walk."
"Yes."
"…Why?"
"To develop grace."
Nathalie let out a disbelieving breath.
"You think grace comes from balancing textbooks like a walking bookshelf?"
"It is a foundational exercise."
"It is a ridiculous exercise."
"Begin."
"…I hate this place."
She lifted the book and carefully placed it on her head.
It slid off instantly.
"…Okay."
She picked it up again.
Second attempt.
It fell again.
"Alright, wait—no—give me a second—"
Third attempt.
The book stayed.
Nathalie froze.
"…Oh."
She lifted one foot.
Placed it down.
The book stayed.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Ha."
She took another step.
The book fell.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
A few students glanced at her.
One whispered, not quietly enough, "She lacks basic control."
Nathalie turned her head. "I heard that."
The book fell again.
"Of course it did."
"Focus," the instructor said from somewhere near the front.
Nathalie dragged in a breath, then exhaled slowly.
"Okay. Fine. Focus. I can do focus."
She straightened.
Lifted her chin.
Placed the book again.
Step.
Step.
Step—
Her foot twisted slightly on the polished floor.
She stumbled sideways.
The book flew off.
And she crashed directly into the student next to her.
"Sorry—!"
The girl didn't move.
At all.
Not even a wobble.
The book on her head remained perfectly in place.
Nathalie stared at her.
"…That's not human."
"It is discipline," the girl replied calmly.
"…That's unnatural."
"You lack training."
"I lack patience."
She picked up the book again.
"Alright. One more time."
This time, she managed four steps before it fell.
Progress.
Technically.
"I hate progress," she muttered.
From the mirror lining the wall, her reflection watched her.
Messy.
Uneven.
Out of place.
Everyone else moved like synchronized pieces in a system that made sense only to them.
She moved like—
A glitch.
The thought lingered longer than she expected.
"Again," the instructor said.
Nathalie sighed.
"Again," she echoed.
—
Thirty minutes later, Nathalie had learned exactly two things:
One: balancing a book on your head was significantly harder than it looked.
Two: she was very bad at being whatever this place wanted her to be.
The class ended without ceremony.
No praise.
No feedback.
Just a quiet dismissal.
"Continue practicing," the instructor said.
"Absolutely not," Nathalie replied immediately.
No one reacted.
She was starting to suspect that sarcasm simply didn't exist here.
"That was your first session," the girl from earlier said as they stepped back into the corridor.
"I survived. Barely. I'd like a medal."
"You will improve."
"I will avoid."
"You will not."
Nathalie glanced sideways at her. "…Do you ever get tired of being correct all the time?"
"I am not always correct."
"That sounded very correct."
"It was accurate."
"Same thing."
They walked in silence for a few moments.
Then Nathalie asked, "So what happens if I fail?"
"You will not."
"I will."
"You will be corrected."
"That sounds ominous."
"It is a process."
"That sounds worse."
Another turn.
Another hallway.
Everything looked the same.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Unnervingly identical.
"…I'm getting lost," Nathalie muttered.
"You will learn the layout."
"I won't."
"You will."
"…Do you ever say anything else?"
"No."
"…Of course you don't."
They entered another space—this one larger, more open. Students gathered in small groups, talking in low, controlled tones.
Nathalie stepped in—
—and immediately felt it.
The shift.
Conversations slowed.
Eyes turned.
Whispers started again.
"That's her—"
"The unstable one—"
"She broke a chair—"
Nathalie sighed. "Great. I have a reputation."
"It is not a positive one," the girl beside her said.
"I gathered."
A boy nearby glanced at her, then quickly looked away.
Another stared a little too long.
Nathalie caught it.
"What?"
He flinched. "Nothing."
"Say it."
"…You don't fit."
Nathalie tilted her head slightly.
"Yeah," she said. "I noticed."
"You should be in Masculine."
"That's not what your system decided."
"The system may be incorrect."
Nathalie smiled faintly. "Now that I agree with."
"Why are you here?" he asked.
Simple question.
Complicated answer.
Nathalie hesitated for just a second.
Then shrugged.
"Wrong place, wrong time."
It wasn't a lie.
Just not the truth.
"…You caused a disturbance," he continued.
"I've been here less than a day."
"That is enough."
"That's reassuring."
Another voice cut in, louder this time.
"So you're the one who broke the chair."
Nathalie turned.
A different boy—leaning casually, arms crossed, expression amused in a way that immediately set off alarms.
"I didn't break it," Nathalie said. "It broke under pressure."
"Right," he said. "And the fire?"
"Also not intentional."
"Interesting."
He pushed off the wall and stepped closer.
"Name."
"Nathalie."
"Just Nathalie?"
"Yes."
He nodded slightly, as if filing that away.
"I'm Max."
"Good for you."
He grinned.
"Yeah, I've been told."
Nathalie narrowed her eyes slightly.
There was something about him.
Not familiar.
Just—
Chaotic.
Finally.
Someone who didn't feel like a perfectly polished statue.
"You don't belong here," Max said, studying her openly.
"That seems to be a popular opinion."
"You're not wrong."
"I know."
He tilted his head. "So what are you?"
Nathalie hesitated.
For just a moment.
Then shrugged.
"Trying to figure that out."
Max watched her for a second longer.
Then smiled.
"Good. That makes two of us."
From across the room—
Another pair of eyes watched.
Quiet.
Sharp.
Unreadable.
Nathalie didn't notice.
Not yet.
But something in the air shifted again.
Subtle.
Building.
Like the world itself was waiting—
For her next mistake.
And she had a feeling—
It wouldn't take long.
---
END OF CHAPTER 2