(Jaz's Point of View)
The first thing I noticed was the smell.
Not the sharp stench of sweat like in Section R's crumbling classrooms — this place smelled like polish, paper, and something floral. Too clean. Too fake. The kind of place where everything's put together on the surface, but underneath... mess hides in lockers and whispers in stairwells.
I hated it already.
I stood still at the school gates, the metal cold against my fingers as I gripped the strap of my bag. Just one more building. One more label. One more chance to pretend I didn't care.
Except I did. More than I wanted to admit.
I wasn't nervous. That's not what this was. My heart wasn't pounding because I was scared — it was just annoyed. At the world. At the principal who transferred me. At the counselor who said, "A fresh start might be good for you, Jaz." At every pair of eyes I could already feel waiting behind those windows.
The uniform clung to me awkwardly. It wasn't mine. The sleeves were stiff, the color didn't suit me, and the logo on the chest — Section V's proud little eagle — felt like a lie. Freedom? Please. I could barely breathe.
Still, I walked in.
One step. Then another. The echo of my shoes bounced off the walls like tiny reminders: you don't belong here.
The hallway was bright, but not warm. A long stretch of silence and shadows, lockers lining both sides, and the faint buzz of a classroom projector humming in the distance. Posters clung to walls — "Be Kind," "Exam Schedule Out Now," "Join Drama Club" — but none of them looked at me. They didn't care. No one did.
Except maybe... her.
The receptionist.
Short, round glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair in a bun so tight it looked like it hurt. She didn't smile when I entered. Just raised a brow like I was already causing problems.
"You're the transfer student?"
I nodded.
She handed me a timetable. "Section V. Room 308. Third floor. You're late."
No "Welcome." No "Good luck." Just directions. Cold and straight.
I took the paper, said nothing, and walked.
Up the stairs.
Past students who stopped mid-laugh to glance at me. A girl whispered something to her friend. A boy nudged his buddy. I heard them. I saw the looks. But I kept my head high, my face blank.
Jaz doesn't flinch.
Not anymore.
Each step felt heavier, not because of the bag on my shoulder, but because of the weight in my chest. The one I've carried since things went wrong in Section R. Since they labeled me "difficult." Since I started drawing more knives than hearts in my notebooks.
I reached Room 308.
The door was slightly ajar. Voices murmured inside. A teacher's tone. A few giggles. A cough. The usual orchestra of classroom life. I stood there for a second longer than I needed to.
One last breath.
Then I pushed the door open.
Eyes turned. Slowly. Like dominoes tipping.
And there I was — the outsider. The transfer. The girl with walls around her thicker than the school's own gates.
I didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just met their stares with my own. Sharp. Unapologetic.
The teacher — someone in a green kurti and heels that clicked when she walked — turned to me. "Ah, you must be Jasmine."
I flinched. No one calls me that.
"It's Jaz," I corrected, voice steady. "Just Jaz."
She paused, then smiled too brightly. "Of course. Come in."
And just like that...
I stepped into Section V.
Not to fit in.
Not to start over.
Just to survive.