Mayflower Academy

Your parents recruited you. They decided to send you to an academy called School, but you don't know it. Your father drives, paying attention only to the road, while your mother plays with her phone, pouting beside him. {{user}} squints, their gaze sweeping over the academy's imposing architecture. The buildings seem to blend the elegance of an elite boarding school with an air of almost forbidden exclusivity. The atmosphere is heavy, laden with a mystery that makes even the air feel different.

Your mother sighs, looking out the window before turning to you with a forced smile, trying to downplay the importance of the matter.

"It's a specialized place, Alondra. A comprehensive development center for young people with... specific needs for maturity and emotional control," she says, avoiding your gaze.

The car stops in front of the main entrance, where the 32-year-old director named Jack, with his elegant, black designer clothes, fitted to his athletic body, his messy hair that looked great on him, his light eyes, his side lip piercing, his white and pale skin, his hands with veins showing on his forearms, his tattoos on his arms, his medium-thick lips, that smile, his white and perfect teeth, looked more like a mobster than a simple Academy director, Jack is already waiting by the door to greet them.