The soft light of dawn was bright, and it casted long shadows across the room. Marco leaned over his cluttered table, scribbling softly against his worn sketchbook. The drawing wasn't real, but each stroke of his pencil gave it life.

It was a portrait of a girl. Long and flowing crimson hair, hazel eyes, and a smile on her face gleamed in his mind. It wasn't complete but it was vivid.

The world around him felt silent, too silent as he sketched. After he drew the final line, marking it halfway, he fumbled for his wallet. The worn photograph of his mother stared back at him. And her smile was frozen, but it was brighter than he'd ever seen it in his life.

"Damn it..." he whispered, a light slam on his desk.

He leaned steadily onto the table, and with a groan, his elbows set into the surface as his fingers scrubbed his face. His palms pressed against his eyes. He tried to block out the world for just a moment, and it was peaceful, but in the end, he was still there.

He let out a deep sigh, and his shoulders sagged under the invisible weight that he carried. His hand ruffled his hair, leaving it messier than before, then toppled to the table.

"You can do it. You can," he muttered to himself as he put on his uniform, then his jacket. And after, he finally stepped into the chaos of the morning commute.

Mesolair National University loomed ahead, with its gilded gates gleaming under the sun. A banner fluttered above the entrance:

Your dream begins here!

Marco's throat tightened. For others, this place was a promise, an opportunity that almost everyone would take. 

But for him? It meant nothing but pain, guilt. It was a monument to his mother's sacrifices, and he could hear her soft voice echoing in his skull like a whisper.

You'll do great here, Marco. This school will open for you a better life. You'll see.

"Stupid dreams." Marco mumbled, letting out a short huff, his bleary eyes rolling as he observed the campus.

It was just a voice, and that 'dream' suffocated from the weight. Yet, here he was, poised at the gate, his feet frozen on the ground. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Get through it," he muttered, and stepped inside.

The courtyard was filled with students. The laughter and chatter echoed around him, and groups of friends reunited for stories of summer escapades. 

But Marco drifted through them. Unnoticed and detached, like a ghost strolling aimlessly.

Each step into the school campus ground now felt heavier than the last. The more he wandered the school, the more his stomach twisted.

What now?

When he found his classroom, he slumped into a table at the back corner. The desk's surface was scarred with months–or even years of bored carvings made by past students. 

His fingers started picking at the edge of the table as he avoided all the unintelligible chatter buzzing around the room. Everything felt distant, like he was different from all the others.

He flipped open his sketchbook again, fingers picking at the desk's edge as chatter swirled around him.

Click-clack.

The room fell silent as heels echoed down the hall. A young teacher swept in, her black hair swishing like a pendulum. "Everyone, my name is Ms. Karina! Let's start introductions–"

The back door burst open.

A girl stumbled in, her uniform rumpled and damp with sweat. "Hey… I'm sorry… for being late…"

Marco glanced up. He froze.

Long flowing crimson hair. Hazel eyes.

It's her. No mistake.

"It's no problem!" chirped Ms. Karina. "So… Why don't you start us off?"

The girl was already flushed due to her panic, but she managed to speak steadily. "I'm Arlene. I like music and… um, hanging out with friends?"

Whispers erupted. "Satsuma's here!"

And well, Arlene ignored them. Her gaze was locked onto the empty seat beside Marco, since it was the only seat available.

As she slid into the desk, the soccer captain sneered with a chuckle, "That's Delacroix. Freaky artist family. My dad says they're cursed."

"Cursed?" Arlene arched her brow. "Or is he just better at art than you?"

Laughter rippled through the room, till Marco flipped open his sketchbook.

Inside, Arlene's face stared back, half-finished and ominously precise.

"Creepy," someone hissed.

Arlene leaned closer, with her shoulder that brushed his. "You drew me."

"Didn't know it was you," Marco lied. He shaded the jawline he'd memorized from tabloid photos of the Satsumas.

"Liar." She grinned, and the room exhaled, full of either envy or fear.

After several more students were called, the teacher voiced out, "Marco… De la.. Crocks..?"

Marco didn't stand. "Marco Delacroix," he droned. He forced a smile, but it didn't really reach his eyes. "I like drawing and reading books."

"Oh." the teacher replied. "Apologies, Marco." 

Arlene peered at his sketchbook, with her earlier bravado softening. "These are amazing. Like really."

He didn't bother glancing at her, gaze fixed on his drawing. "I know."

She blinked, then laughed. "Marco Dela… Croix, was it?"

Marco nodded. "Yeah."

"Meet me at the cafeteria later," she smirked.

"What? But—"

"Nope." She waved him off, turning back to the lecture.

Marco sighed, and the world snapped back into focus around him. The bell rang, and so students scrambled to leave. As he stood, Arlene caught his eye, her smirk daring him to refuse.

And so, he didn't.