("We weren't rejected. We were... dramatically reallocated.")
It took less than five minutes to realize that Sector Five was not a class.
It was a containment unit.
There were six other students in the room when I arrived. Well, technically seven, if you counted the animated mop in the corner wearing a tiny hat and what I prayed wasn't a mustache drawn in blood.
I didn't.
The first to notice me was a girl balancing three books on her head while standing on one leg atop a desk.
"Newbie," she chirped, mid-pose. "Welcome to Hell. I'm Mint."
"Mint?" I repeated.
She hopped down, flaring her coat dramatically. "Short for 'Minthe Doomtwister.'"
"...You made that up."
"I manifested it," she corrected, pointing a wand at her head. It sparked, fizzled, and exploded in her face.
She didn't flinch.
"Lightning affinity," I muttered, mildly impressed.
"Nope! Just bad at magic."
Wonderful.
---
In the far corner, someone was whispering aggressively to a cactus.
I approached. "...You good?"
The boy turned slowly. Sharp eyes, dark circles, and an aura of "I don't sleep, I plot." He gestured at the cactus solemnly.
"This is Greg. He's the only one who gets me."
"…Cool."
"I'm Bram. Cursed bloodline. My last tutor turned into an egg."
"An egg."
"A scrambled one."
He went back to whispering.
---
Another student—tall, muscular, with a literal thundercloud hovering over his head—grunted at me as he bench-pressed a desk with one arm.
"Vox," he said.
"Caleb."
He stared.
"Thunder affinity?"
I nodded.
He nodded back.
We were friends now, I guess.
---
Then there was Her.
Sitting in the window seat, arms folded, looking like the cover art of a tragic magical girl album. White hair. Black nails. A single floating quill writing notes beside her without instruction.
She didn't look up when I approached.
"Hi."
Silence.
"I'm Caleb. You?"
Nothing.
Mint leaned in and whispered, "That's Isolde. Don't take it personally—she took a vow of silence after her last duel."
I turned. "Out of trauma?"
"No. Out of spite. She won, but the judge gave the other girl bonus points for 'theatrics.'"
I paused.
"…I respect that."
---
The last student entered ten minutes late, sliding through the door like a caffeinated squirrel.
"Sorry! Sorry, got lost chasing a time skip. Or maybe it chased me. Who's to say?"
He wore a pair of mismatched shoes, and his coat had a visible bite mark.
"I'm Kip! Fire magicicain and magical gear engineer. Probably. The clocks hate me."
He gave me a thumbs-up, then tripped over his own shadow and vanished for three seconds before reappearing upside down.
I blinked.
Sector Five was a circus.
And I was the newest clown.
---
Then came the announcement.
The chalkboard began to write on its own again:
> "WELCOME TO LAB TWELVE'S ASSOCIATED SECTOR."
"YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR A SPECIAL CURRICULUM DESIGNED TO BRING OUT YOUR 'UNIQUE' TALENTS."
"PROFESSOR VENN WILL BE IN CHARGE OF YOUR DEVELOPMENT."
A beat.
The door slammed open.
Professor Venn entered, wearing goggles, a grin, and what looked like a scarf made of sparking runes.
"Good morning, my wayward disasters!" he beamed.
No one corrected him.
He clapped his hands. "Today's lesson: Survival 101. If you fail, don't worry—you'll be preserved in magical amber for future study!"
Mint raised a hand. "Is there a test?"
"Yes. But the grading curve is gravity."
---
As the chaos began (and Kip fell into a dimensional puddle), I took my seat in the back.
It was weird.
I felt… comfortable.
Not like I belonged. Not really. But like I wasn't being watched here.
No comparisons to Reed. No expectations from Aria. No simping, no self-hatred, no plot armor.
Just me. Caleb.
An artist. A failed noble. A misfit.
And maybe, just maybe…
A protagonist in a story no one else was reading yet.