Terrence’s sleep was restless. He tossed and turned all night, plagued by the endless train of thoughts that had been bombarding him since the day he arrived. Nothing particularly dramatic happened in his dreams—just vague discomfort, a lot of sweating, and the occasional silent scream into his pillow. Classic.

He woke up to the sterile silence of what they called his room. It felt more like a guest room someone forgot to finish decorating. The sheets were stiff, the mattress felt like it came from a prison cot clearance sale, and the air was too clean—like even the dust didn’t want to stay here.

It wasn’t home. Not even close. The question lingered longer than he liked. Maybe it was time he stopped trying to define it. Or maybe he just didn’t know anymore.

He’d probably have to ask permission to decorate it later. Hang up a poster or two so he didn’t forget what color looked like.

The night had felt empty. The morning felt even emptier. Not even the melodic chirping of birds from outside could fill the void gnawing at him. That familiar dull ache of being out of place, unwelcome, unneeded. Yeah, he knew that feeling too well. He just had to get used to it. Again.

Back home, he could skate. That was always the fix. Just him and his board, coasting through the city like nothing could touch him. Fast enough, loud enough, long enough—and the problems blurred out behind him.

There were other outlets too.

A late-night party. A basement packed shoulder to shoulder. Music thumping like a second heartbeat. The haze. The buzz. A few drinks. Sometimes more than a few.
Not great decisions, but at least they kept his head quiet. Here? There was nothing.
No skateboard, no space, no late-night chaos to disappear into. Just clean floors and soft voices and way too many rules.

The usual ways he kept himself from falling apart? Gone.

And without them, he didn’t know what to do with the quiet. Or with himself.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. My actions brought me here. I just have to work with what I got,”

He muttered to himself, like he was auditioning for a tragic self-help audiobook.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention—long, hard, and sticking out of his suitcase. His skateboard.

Terrence blinked, momentarily stunned. It was like a lifeline. He grinned, almost shocked that it was even in there. His parents must’ve slipped it in without him knowing. Nice.

He headed to the dining area, where laughter echoed down the hallway—bright, casual, and entirely disconnected from him. When he entered, his host family greeted him warmly. Mr. Verlice smiled and set down his coffee. Mrs. Verlice glanced up from her plate with a cheerful “Good morning, Terrence.” Even Augustin offered a polite nod, and Genevieve gave a small wave between bites of toast.

It was... nicer than expected. A little too nice. Like they were all trying really hard to make this work.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I could hear you guys laughing just now. What’s so funny?”

Mrs. Verlice greeted him with a soft, polite smile as he entered the dining room. “Good morning, Terrence. Did you sleep well?”

Terrence mumbled a half-hearted response, “Yeah, I guess.”

She nodded thoughtfully, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment. “I couldn’t help but notice… your uniform, it’s a bit disheveled, and your hair’s… well, not quite the standard we encourage here at Dreswood. I understand you’re still adjusting, but it’s important to make a good impression, especially with the faculty.”

Terrence’s hand instinctively went to his hair, trying to push it back into something resembling order. He hadn’t thought about it, but now it felt like everyone else had. “Right. I’ll take care of it.” 

Mrs. Verlice gave a small, understanding smile. “It’s not a big deal, dear. Just something to keep in mind moving forward. We want to help you succeed here.”

Terrence simply nodded, doing his best to mask the discomfort. What was so wrong with his hair? It was combed. It was the style back in D.C., the one that let everyone know you were it. The ladies had no problem running their hands through it. He glanced at the siblings.

Genevieve was already in uniform, hair perfect like she was born straight out of a school brochure. Augustin had that casual coolness thing going on—the type of person people liked just because he breathed.

Terrence, meanwhile, couldn’t help but notice the contrast, not that he thought he looked bad. Honestly, he thought he had more style in his pinky finger than half the people in this house. Not that anyone asked.

“Ready for school?” Genevieve asked as she got up, slinging her bag over one shoulder.

He was a little surprised she’d asked at all. “Yeah, just give me a second to eat.”

“There isn’t much time,” Genevieve said firmly. “You came down at seven, and we need to leave before half past — that’s when the gates close. I’d really prefer not to risk my attendance record over a piece of toast.”

“I thought this was college. Don’t you get to pick your classes? Why is everyone acting like it's military school?”

“This is a private school, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “It’s always been like this. Honestly, where exactly did you go to school before?” She sighed and handed him a neatly wrapped sandwich. “Here. I made it earlier. You can eat it on the way — just please try not to make a mess in the car. Mr. Carter gets awfully particular about crumbs.”

“Fine. I’ll do you one better—eat this plus my breakfast before we even get in the car.”

And he did. Stuffed his face full of food like a raccoon raiding a campsite.

Genevieve looked visibly disturbed. “Please don’t ever do that again. It was... rather unsettling. Don’t you have any sense of decorum?”

“Nope,” he replied, his mouth full. “Anyway, the food was lovely. Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Verlice!” he called over his shoulder, plastering on a bright, exaggerated smile as he nudged Genevieve forward to lead him out.

Rabbit food, he thought as his stomach grumbled again. Maybe lunch would be less... vegan.

Augustin walked beside him with his usual quiet intensity—never quite touching, but close enough to remind you he was there. It was weird. The kind of silence that noticed things. Not mean. Not friendly. Just… observant.

It made Terrence feel like he was being studied. He hated that.

Dreswood Arcanum looked like someone had poured bleach and ambition into a castle. The halls were unnaturally pristine, like dirt had been outlawed. Every corner gleamed. It was too clean. Too perfect.

It made his old school look like a theme park dumpster, and he missed it deeply.

The second they walked in, the whispering began.

Terrence didn’t even flinch. He was used to it. Being the new kid. The one everyone side-eyed. The reform program kid. The one who used to be a bully, now shoved into a place full of suck-ups and overachievers.

But the stares here weren’t curious. They weren’t even mean.

They were... disappointed.

Like he was some new exhibit in a Museum of Failure.

“If they’re gonna stare, they might as well charge admission.”

Genevieve guided him to his classroom, waved a quick goodbye, and vanished into her group like she hadn’t been dragging him along five seconds ago. Augustin followed close behind. Terrence lingered a little, taking in the room full of polished, judgmental faces.

One pair of eyes stayed on him longer than the others.

He scanned the crowd, trying to make sense of it, and finally locked eyes with a nerd in the back corner of the crowd forming. The guy didn’t look away, just stared. Terrence smirked, threw up a middle finger, and walked into the building without a second thought.

Mrs. Grantham was exactly the kind of woman who would correct your grammar mid-breakdown. Her hair was pulled back so tight it could probably snap wire. Voice sharp enough to slice bread.

She didn’t waste time.

“Rules are clear,” she said, eyes boring directly into Terrence like she had a vendetta against sarcasm.

“One: Silence in the hallways. Two: No. Phones. Allowed. Three: Speak only when spoken to, Mr. Thompson. Your place here is temporary, but your actions speak volumes.  Four: Always be on time. And if you can’t follow those four simple rules, then you’ll never be able to leave this place.”

Her face was suddenly inches from his.

“And in your case, Mr. Thompson, there’s an additional requirement: you’ll need to pass etiquette training and significantly improve your language if you ever hope to return home. Some people can’t control themselves, no matter how many promises they make. They always end up breaking them, one way or another. I suspect you might be one of them.”

Terrence gritted his teeth. He wasn’t in the mood for her sanctimonious attitude.

“I understand, ma’am,” he said, managing to sound just polite enough to not get expelled on the spot.

She paused, and her eyes narrowed even further. “Well, if you understood all that, then why is it that you came here with your hair a mess and your uniform disorderly? You clearly know how to behave when it suits you—so why don’t you make it suit you here?”

Terrence rolled his eyes, not even trying to hide his annoyance. “Oh, please,” he muttered, grabbing the collar of his uniform and tugging it into place, acting like it was such a huge inconvenience.

With a dramatic sigh, he reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more just for the fun of it. "You want this mess cleaned up or should I leave it like the battle scene it is?" he quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he shoved his shirt back into some semblance of order.

After he said those words, Mrs. Grantham’s ruler came down with a sharp crack on the desk beside him, making him flinch for the first time since he’d walked into the room. Her eyes burned into him, cold and unwavering.

"Mr. Thompson," she said, her voice now dangerously low. "You will show respect, or I will ensure your stay here becomes even more uncomfortable. You do not speak to me like that. And you will follow every rule, starting with how you present yourself. Understood?"

Terrence froze, his usual sarcastic retort dying in his throat. He glanced at the ruler in her hand, then back at her eyes. There was no room for games here.

With a huff, he muttered under his breath, “Yeah, yeah. Understood.”

“Good,” she said crisply. “Now, fix your hair and your uniform. You may think you’re clever, Mr. Thompson, but here, your cleverness will only get you into trouble. If you want to survive here, you’ll have to do more than just skate by with a wink and a grin.”

Terrence took one last glance at the ruler, which still hovered dangerously close to him, then reluctantly reached up to smooth his hair into something more acceptable. He wasn't going to make it easy for her, but he also wasn’t about to risk another crack from that ruler that cut through air like a knife.

“You’re under the care of the Verlice family now, aren’t you? I do hope you’re showing your gratitude. They’re old friends of mine. We talk. Often.”

“And?” he said flatly. It wasn’t meant to be rude—he just genuinely didn’t get the point. Was she going to tattle on him for not kissing the ground she walked on?

The room held its breath.

Mrs. Grantham smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “Privileges at Dreswood are earned. Phones, visitors, even extracurriculars—they’re not rights. They’re gifts. I suggest you behave accordingly.”

“Go to your seat.”

He did, reluctantly, his whole body buzzing with indignation. That passive-aggressive tone was enough to make him want to flip a desk.

Mrs. Grantham was droning on in the front of the room, explaining something that Terrence honestly couldn’t care less about. He wasn’t paying attention. His mind kept drifting, the words a blur, just another repetitive cycle of rules, rules, and more rules. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him from across the room. He had half a mind to just tune her out completely.

His eyes glazed over as he sat slouched in his seat, letting his body lean against the desk. He wasn’t tired—he was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that sinks deep in your bones, leaving you too worn out to even fake interest.

Then he felt it. That subtle buzz in his pocket. His phone.

The urge to pull it out and check was instant, but it was risky—too risky, with Mrs. Grantham in full teacher mode, lecturing about something that, in Terrence’s mind, couldn’t matter less. His hand hovered over the phone in his pocket. He shouldn’t, but... he could hear his dad’s voice, just for a second. A fleeting reminder of what home used to feel like.

Without thinking, he shifted in his seat, deliberately slouching lower to hide his phone from Mrs. Grantham’s sharp eyes. He didn’t care if it was against the rules. He didn’t care if she was looking.

His hand shot into his pocket under the desk. It buzzed again.

Terrence let out a frustrated sigh, glancing up at the clock. He couldn’t just pull out his phone here—there was no way he’d risk it. But damn it, he needed to hear his dad’s voice.

“May I be excused to the bathroom?” He said it without even thinking, the words slipping out like second nature. He shot Mrs. Grantham a look of mild annoyance, though he wasn’t expecting it to work.

She didn’t look up from her notes. “You may,” she said sweetly, but there was a slight edge to her voice. “As long as it’s just the bathroom.”

Terrence didn’t respond, just stood up quickly, shoving his chair back with a scrape against the floor. His eyes flicked to the clock again. Just a few minutes. He could make it quick.

He grabbed his phone on the way out, slipping it into his pocket, and walked quickly to the nearest bathroom. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as he ducked into a stall and locked the door behind him. His fingers fumbled as he hit call, his heart beating a little faster with every second.

It rang. Once. Twice.

“Hey, kid. I was wondering when you would answer.”

Terrence’s shoulders relaxed, just a little. He didn’t have the words for a full conversation, but hearing his dad’s voice for even a moment brought some sense of familiarity to the chaos.

But then, the bathroom door creaked open. Terrence froze.

There she was. Mrs. Grantham. Like some kind of horror movie villain, stepping into the bathroom with the kind of authority only a teacher in full control could manage.

“You really thought I wouldn’t check?” she said, her voice sharp and unforgiving. Before Terrence could react, she snatched the phone right out of his hand, her fingers cold and efficient.

“Give that back,” he snapped, but she was already stepping away from him, phone in hand.

“You’ll get this back when you learn to follow directions,” she said, her tone as cold as ever.

The door slammed shut behind her as she left the bathroom. Terrence stayed frozen for a moment, his mind racing. The nerve.

By the time Terrence returned to class, the punishment had somehow escalated from getting the phone back at the end of the day to getting it back after a full week.