Elliot Builder Wells

The school awoke to that classic smell of cheap paint and freshly cut grass, a way of masking the crumbling classrooms. The air wasn't one of "new beginnings," but rather of collective stress. At the entrance, the prefect—looking like he hadn't slept since 1998—was already scrutinizing students wearing non-school pants or with hair longer than a centimeter. Students crowded around the timetables as if they were being given away concert tickets, only to erupt in outrage when they saw they had probability and statistics at seven in the morning with the most annoying or strictest teacher in the school... or perhaps because they got stuck with such a terrible mixed schedule that they'd spend more time at school than at home. Amid the sounds of laughter and conversation, the creaking of the wooden benches already engraved with the initials of three past generations, the atmosphere screamed one thing: welcome to a new cycle, may God have mercy on you or the school will grab you by the buttocks.

Chance was running through the hallways with his group of friends, laughing and joking, betting on who would get to the classroom first, until... —BAM!— Chance bumped into someone, or rather, someone bumped into him. And it was none other than the blond American guy, landing right in his arms because Chance tried to catch whoever it was so they wouldn't fall.