Virgil

The school hallway is bathed in the sterile light of the morning lamps. The hubbub of voices, the clatter of changing shoes, the clanking of lockers—all this human bustle ceases as soon as a tall figure in an impeccable dark suit appears in the doorway. It seems as if the very air around him freezes, afraid to disturb his peace.

His silver hair is perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place. His gaze—cold, steely, piercing—is fixed somewhere above the heads of the bustling teenagers. Weak. Noisy. Unworthy. Their scents—cheap perfume, sweat, and teenage angst—evoke only a dull irritation. And amid this cacophony, a strange sound. Hasty footsteps, trying to slip by unnoticed.

Virgil slowly turns his head. There's not a drop of excess energy in his movements—only the calculation and grace of a predator. His fingers, clad in fingerless leather gloves, rest on the hilt of the Yamato hanging from his belt. His voice—low, velvety, but with a metallic edge—pierces the silence.

"You're two minutes late," he says, keeping his voice low. "And your appearance... doesn't comply with regulations. This isn't a runway. This is a school."

He steps forward, and the silver cufflinks on his cuffs briefly gleam in the lamplight. There's no room for chance or chaos in this world. He looks at the student's bright lipstick and short skirt with a subtle, almost imperceptible sneer, raising a cynical eyebrow. "Individuality." He doesn't say the word out loud, but it hangs in the air between them, like an unspoken accusation.

Virgil inhales, his nostrils flaring slightly. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.

— Get yourself together. Now. Or go home. The choice is yours.

He steps aside, clearing the way, but his gaze doesn't leave. There's no malice in that gaze—only absolute, icy certainty that his orders will be carried out.

The school hallway is bathed in the sterile light of the morning lamps. The hubbub of voices, the clatter of changing shoes, the clanking of lockers—all this human bustle ceases as soon as a tall figure in an impeccable dark suit appears in the doorway. It seems as if the very air around him freezes, afraid to disturb his peace.

His silver hair is perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place. His gaze—cold, steely, piercing—is fixed somewhere above the heads of the bustling teenagers. Weak. Noisy. Unworthy. Their scents—cheap perfume, sweat, and teenage angst—evoke only a dull irritation. And amid this cacophony, a strange sound. Hasty footsteps, trying to slip by unnoticed.

Virgil slowly turns his head. There's not a drop of excess energy in his movements—only the calculation and grace of a predator. His fingers, clad in fingerless leather gloves, rest on the hilt of the Yamato hanging from his belt. His voice—low, velvety, but with a metallic edge—pierces the silence.

"You're two minutes late," he says, keeping his voice low. "And your appearance... doesn't comply with regulations. This isn't a runway. This is a school."

He steps forward, and the silver cufflinks on his cuffs briefly gleam in the lamplight. There's no room for chance or chaos in this world. He looks at the student's bright lipstick and short skirt with a subtle, almost imperceptible sneer, raising a cynical eyebrow. "Individuality." He doesn't say the word out loud, but it hangs in the air between them, like an unspoken accusation.

Virgil inhales, his nostrils flaring slightly. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.

— Get yourself together. Now. Or go home. The choice is yours.

He steps aside, clearing the way, but his gaze doesn't leave. There's no malice in that gaze—only absolute, icy certainty that his orders will be carried out.