The sky above was an endless stretch of blue, sunlight casting soft shadows over the brick buildings as they stood just beyond the towering gates. Shading his eyes, Terrence took one last look at the school.

It was… beautiful. Regal. Like it belonged in a movie. Brick walls trimmed with ivy, tall arching windows, and intricate stonework that whispered legacy and money. A marble sign near the front read:

Dreswood Arcanum for Intellectual and Creative Advancement
Est. 1831 — “Genius is Cultivated, Greatness is Expected.”

Mr. Verlice, ever poised, adjusted his cufflinks and stepped toward the car. His assistant, Mr. Carter, was already opening the passenger door for Terrence.

The boy stepped into the car sluggishly, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, just so you know, I didn’t even know I was coming to... wherever this is.” He gestured vaguely. “It was an eight-hour flight. I haven’t eaten, prison food is a joke, and I haven’t showered since I got tossed in holding. So if someone could kindly explain how I get back home to my actual parents, that’d be amazing.”

Mr. Carter’s expression didn’t budge. “They mentioned you had... personality. Not surprising. With your record, I imagine you think the world revolves around you.”

Terrence lifted an eyebrow, voice dry. “I prefer ‘main character energy,’ but sure. Where exactly am I?”

“You’re at Dreswood,” Mr. Verlice answered smoothly, his tone warm but matter-of-fact. “It’s a school unlike most. A place for the brilliant, the artistic, and yes... those in need of a second chance. It has a legacy of turning lives around—and helping people discover what they’re capable of.”

That caught Terrence slightly off guard. The man’s voice wasn’t smug or judgmental. Just calm. Like he actually believed what he was saying.

“I thought this was just some rehab for troubled kids,” Terrence muttered, eyeing the pristine countryside rolling past the window. “This place already looks nicer than my old school.”

Mr. Carter gave a low chuckle, “Even if your parents were the wealthiest in the school, you’d still have to meet the other requirements. And from what I can tell, you can’t even meet the bare minimum. You're at the very bottom of the ladder. Think of it like this: the school sees your case as... a charity case. That’s how exceptional our school is, and how highly regarded Mr. Verlice’s children are. The school simply takes pity on the unfortunate. You’ll fit in just fine with the students, as long as you behave,” the assistant added, his tone laced with condescension as he drove the car. Mr. Verlice cut in gently before he could speak any more.

“I don’t see you as a case, Terrence,” Verlice said, glancing at him with clear, steady eyes. “I see you as a student. And I expect you'll be treated with respect—as long as you offer the same in return.”

That made Terrence pause. No scolding. No smug smile. Just... kindness.

Mr. Carter, meanwhile, couldn’t help himself. “Still, it would help if you attempted to blend in. The students here tend to value discipline. The hoodie and the attitude—maybe not the best tools for integration.”

“Carter, watch your words,” Mr Verlice said.

“Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Terrence leaned back in his seat. “Wow. Do you guys hand out personality templates at orientation, or…?”

Mr. Carter stiffened slightly, but Mr. Verlice laughed—an actual, honest chuckle. “You’ve got spirit. That might serve you well here... if you channel it correctly.”

Terrence glanced sideways, suspicion flickering in his eyes. Too nice. Nobody was this nice without expecting something in return. He ignored the jab at his expense — not because he was insecure, of course — but because he couldn’t be bothered to respond. Instead, he spent the rest of the ride in silence, the tension between them hanging in the air like an unspoken agreement.

The car stopped in front of a pristine estate nestled among towering trees and hedges trimmed to perfection. Whitewashed walls, ivy crawling like veins. A place that whispered wealth in its silence.

“Welcome to your new home,” Mr. Verlice said as the doors opened. “For however long you stay.”

Inside, the house was tastefully minimalist: white walls, warm wood accents, and family portraits framed in gold. Terrence’s eyes lingered on a photo above the fireplace—it looked a little older, the colors slightly faded. Mr. and Mrs. Verlice stood beside two striking teenagers.

“That’s Augustin and Genevieve,” Mr. Verlice said, noticing. “Our children. Top of their class. Augustin fences. Genevieve dances. They are prefects. Exemplars.”

“Neat,” Terrence said—genuinely, not even sarcastically. ‘They’re like the fantasy version of a family. So put together. So idyllic... not me.’

“Carter, show Mr. Thompson to his room.”

Mr. Carter led him upstairs. The room was bare—white walls, a single bed with folded linens, a wooden cabinet, and a lamp.

“Simple layout. Towels are in the bathroom, second door on the left,” Mr. Carter said, placing a small notepad with his number on the nightstand. “Call if you need anything. I’ll collect you for dinner once you’re done showering.”

“Cool, cool.” They stood there.

“…Could I check my messages in private?”

Without a word, Mr. Carter shut the door.

“Damn,” Terrence muttered, flopping on the bed and grabbing his phone.

531 New Messages

Terrence ignored the other messages and pressed Damien’s directly.

 Damien: Dude? Where are you? You flaked. You alive?

Terrence sighed and typed:

Sorry, bro. Got kidnapped by my own parents. I’m in Europe or something now. Don't look for me. Host family’s strict. Gotta play nice for now. Catch you later.

He scrolled through party photos from days ago, smirking, then paused. Still no calls or messages from Mom and Dad. He tried calling—three times. No answer.

He tossed the phone across the bed. “Figures.”

Later, after a much-needed shower, Mr. Carter returned, punctual as promised.

“Changed your outfit?” he asked as Terrence stepped out. “Good. Your things are unpacked.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Are you ready to meet your host family?”

Terrence shrugged. “Jetlagged. Tired. Not sure I care.”

“You’re eating their food and sleeping in their house. Show some courtesy.”

“Right, right—don’t forget, I didn’t want to be here.”

Carter raised an eyebrow. “Will you be wearing… that?”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Nothing. Just a pity Augustin’s clothes won’t fit you.”

Terrence scowled. “It’s not a ‘situation.’”

“And please,” Carter added, “speak like a scholar, not a street rat.”

‘I swear, he’s lucky I’m trying to behave,’ Terrence thought as they walked down the hall.

The dining room was warm and golden, lit by a chandelier that looked older than the United States. Laughter spilled out—until Terrence walked in. Silence.

‘Well, damn. So this is what royalty looks like.’

“Sup—” He caught Carter’s warning glance. “I mean, good evening.”

Mrs. Verlice stood to greet him, her smile bright and welcoming. “Terrence! We’re so happy to have you here. Please—make yourself comfortable.”

“Actually, I go by Renzo...” he said as he slid into the empty seat.

Her smile didn’t falter. “Renzo is lovely. But in this house, we try to honor the names we were given. There’s something special in them, don’t you think?”

Terrence glanced at the table. He didn’t want to argue. Not yet. “Sure. Makes sense, I guess.”

Laid out before him was a dinner spread that looked straight out of a vintage cookbook—mashed potatoes, buttered peas, collard greens, cornbread.

He blinked. “Are we doing historical reenactments now, or…?”

“I made it,” Mrs. Verlice said, still smiling, though there was a hint of confusion now. “It’s what we usually eat. I thought it’d be something familiar.”

“Oh. Uh. No, I mean—it’s cool,” Terrence said quickly, realizing his tone might’ve been a little too sharp. “I just figured we’d do takeout or something. But, like, this is... nostalgic.”

Across the table, Augustin raised a single eyebrow. Genevieve sipped her water, unfazed.

Mr. Verlice stepped in with a patient voice. “In this house, we eat together. What’s made is what’s shared. No special treatment, no skipped turns. And no chores means no meals—though tonight, of course, is an exception.”

Terrence’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded, swallowing his retort. ‘So we’re a quaint, wholesome, oddly formal family unit. Noted.’

“You’ll help Augustin with dishes,” he added. “It’s part of our family values—discipline, humility, gratitude.”

‘So no housekeeper? No chef? No exit plan?’ Terrence wanted to scream. Instead, his stomach growled.

“…Thank you for the food,” he said reluctantly.

As he raised his fork, the family joined hands and began to pray. He choked mid-bite, startled, earning side-eyes from the siblings.

Reluctantly, he offered one hand to Genevieve and the other to Mr. Verlice. The moment was quiet and simple—no dramatic preaching, just a sincere offering of gratitude.

Terrence lowered his eyes and sighed. ‘Great. God’s involved too.’

He chewed the bite he’d already taken before the prayer started, trying not to make a scene. Whatever. He’d survived worse.

But the food… wasn’t bad.

Not bad at all.

And if he were being honest, this was the first hot meal he’d had in a while that didn’t come in a takeout bag.

“Amen,” they chorused.

After dinner, Terrence found himself beside Augustin at the sink, sleeves rolled up, warm water running over his hands. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clink of dishes and the occasional drip of the tap.

Augustin stood a little to the side, drying each plate with methodical care, as if it were part of some unspoken routine he’d followed his entire life. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Terrence scrubbed in silence, the sponge squeaking faintly against porcelain. Guess I’ll play nice for now. Smile, scrub, survive.

The air between them wasn’t tense — just... careful. Cordial. Like they were coworkers, not two people living under the same roof.

He glanced sideways at Augustin but didn’t hold the look long. There was nothing unkind about him, but nothing inviting either.

They’re polite. Always polite, Terrence thought. Not cold, not cruel. Just enough to remind me this isn’t mine. That I’m passing through.

The faucet hissed as he turned it off. Plates done. Hands clean.
He dried them on a towel and stepped back, the quiet still pressing at his shoulders. This house is too perfect. Too polished. The second I figure out how to escape this pretty little prison, I'm gone.