School Of The Gifted

I arrive at the Coliseum, my body drenched in sweat, the fabric of my shirt and pants clinging to my skin, the moisture making every step feel heavier. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my lungs burning with the effort of the sprint, the taste of salt and exertion on my tongue. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my back, my chest heaving as I try to regain some semblance of composure. My legs tremble from the exertion, the muscles protesting against the sudden demand I've placed on them. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of moisture across my face, my vision slightly blurred from the effort.

I look up at the Coliseum, its presence imposing yet awe-inspiring. The door before me is colossal, made of what appears to be polished oak, reinforced with ornate ironwork that spirals and twists like ancient runes, giving it a blend of strength and artistry. It's large enough that it could easily accommodate several people walking through side by side, with heavy iron handles that gleam in the light, suggesting they've been recently tended to or perhaps are never allowed to dull.

Above this grand entrance, mounted on the facade of the building, is the school's crest. It's an intricate design, depicting a castle that seems to float among the clouds, its spires piercing the sky as if reaching for something beyond. The castle itself is rendered in shades of silver and gold, giving it an ethereal, almost mythical quality. The clouds around it are detailed with such precision that they appear to be in motion, swirling around the castle in a dance of light and shadow. The crest is framed by a circular border where the motto of the school is inscribed in an ancient, flowing script, though I'm too far to make out the words.

As I catch my breath, I notice a stout man standing guard in front of the colossal door. He's an imposing figure, not for his height but for his breadth and the air of authority he exudes. His uniform is crisp, a dark blue that matches the twilight sky, tailored to fit his robust frame with precision. The fabric stretches slightly over his broad chest, where a badge glints under the dimming light, marking him unmistakably as security.

His face is weathered, the lines around his eyes and mouth telling stories of years spent under the sun and perhaps in other less clement conditions. His hair, or what's left of it, is buzzed short, grey and white in patches, giving him a no-nonsense appearance. His eyes, a sharp, piercing blue, scan the surroundings with the vigilance of someone who misses nothing, their gaze settling on me with a mix of curiosity and appraisal.

His hands are large, calloused from what must be years of handling more than just the security duties at this school. They rest on his hips, one thumb hooked into his belt where a set of keys jangles softly with each slight movement. His stance is wide, feet planted firmly on the ground like roots, suggesting he's ready to react at a moment's notice.

The badge on his chest isn't just for show; it's accompanied by a walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder, its occasional crackle breaking the silence. His boots are polished, military. His belt is equipped with various tools of his trade—pepper spray, handcuffs, and a small, black flashlight.

His mustache, neatly trimmed, adds to the stern look, framing a mouth that's currently set in a line of neutrality, but one can imagine it easily turning into a frown or a shout if the situation demanded. There's a scar just above his left eyebrow, perhaps a memento from a past encounter, adding to his seasoned look.

As he notices my gaze, his posture shifts subtly, a silent acknowledgment of my presence, but his expression remains unreadable.

I step forward, my legs still trembling from the run, and as I open my mouth to explain, the stout security man beats me to it.

"You're late," he says with a voice that rumbles like distant thunder, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that feels like judgment. "The door's closed."

"I know, I'm sorry," I gasp out, still trying to catch my breath. "I was dropped off at the trash factory by mistake, and I had to run all the way here."

The man's expression doesn't change; it's as if my words don't even reach him. He repeats with the same stern tone, "You're late. The door's closed."

His repetition feels like a wall, solid and unyielding. There's no sign of empathy or understanding in his gaze, just the unwavering enforcement of rules. The badge on his chest seems to grow brighter, a symbol of the authority he embodies here at the threshold of the Coliseum. His stance doesn't shift; he's a rock, immutable in his duty.

I look at the massive door, now an obstacle rather than an entry, the ornate ironwork and polished wood seeming to mock my predicament.

My mind races, searching for the right words, but my body is too exhausted to cooperate. My tongue feels like lead, and the thoughts in my head are a muddled mess. Giving up on speech, I slump down onto the cold, hard ground.

The thought of expulsion looms large, an inevitable shadow over my future. Maybe, part of me thinks, this isn't such a bad outcome. I've never been entirely sure I wanted to be here, at this prestigious, daunting school. But the sting of disappointment is sharp, the taste of failure bitter on my tongue, even if mixed with the salt of my sweat.

As I wallow in this mix of resignation and regret, I notice a change in the security guard's demeanor. He stiffens, his posture becoming even more rigid, and then he snaps into a salute so crisp it could cut through the air. His eyes, which were moments ago fixed on me with a stern gaze, now look past me, towards something or someone approaching from behind.

Turning my head, I look back to see who could elicit such a display of respect from the security guard. Standing there is a man who seems to embody the very essence of authority and command. He's tall, his frame slim but clearly carrying an undercurrent of strength beneath the tailored lines of his suit.

The suit is impeccably cut, a deep charcoal that contrasts with the lighter hues of the evening, hugging his form in a way that speaks of high fashion and even higher status. The jacket fits perfectly across his broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist, the fabric catching the last of the daylight in subtle glints. His shirt, a crisp white, peeks out from beneath the jacket, with a tie of a dark, rich burgundy, knotted precisely at his throat.

His face is striking, the kind that would stop you in your tracks. High cheekbones define his visage, giving him a sharp, almost noble look. His hair is dark, neatly styled back from his face, not a strand out of place, enhancing the clean lines of his features. His eyes, a piercing green, hold an intensity that matches his authoritative presence, yet there's a hint of warmth there, like embers glowing beneath the surface.

His jawline is strong, clean-shaven, adding to the air of meticulous care he takes in his appearance. The man exudes an aura of someone who is both at ease with his power and accustomed to wielding it. His posture is confident, not a slouch or a slink in sight; every step he takes is measured, deliberate, as if he's always in control of his surroundings.

As he approaches, the security guard maintains his salute until the man gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod, signaling the guard to stand at ease. This man, with his handsome features and undeniable air of authority, commands the space around him without effort, making everyone else seem like mere background to his presence.

The man's gaze shifts from the security guard to me, still seated on the ground, his green eyes assessing with a curious tilt of his head. "Why is this young man outside?" he inquires, his voice smooth, carrying a tone that blends authority with genuine interest.

The guard answers stiffly, "He arrived late, sir."

The man in the suit then turns his full attention to me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, which somehow doesn't diminish his air of authority but rather enhances it. "Coming late for the orientation is a serious offense," he begins, his voice calm yet carrying weight, "and typically, grounds for expulsion."

I manage a weak nod, accepting my fate. My eyes drop to the ground, resignation setting in.

For a moment, there's silence, and I can feel the man's gaze on me, studying, perhaps pondering. Then, he breaks the silence, "Why were you late?" His question is direct, but there's a hint of something more in his tone—curiosity, maybe even a trace of compassion.

Lifting my head, I meet his eyes, finding the strength to speak despite my exhaustion. "I was dropped off at the trash corner sir," I explain, my voice hoarse but clear. "I had to run all the way here."

The man's eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, then he asks, "Why didn't you make use of the campus vehicles?"

I look at him, my expression one of genuine surprise. "I wasn't aware of that. A senior I met just told me to run fast."

A chuckle escapes the man, a sound that's warm and unexpectedly light. "The older ones are playing pranks already," he murmurs to himself, shaking his head in amusement. Then, turning to me, his smile broadens. "You're forgiven," he declares, his voice firm yet kind. "I'll vouch for you."

The guard, his face set in a frown, protests, "But what about the rules, sir?"

The man turns to the security guard with an air of calm authority, his tone matter-of-fact, devoid of any pride or boast. "I make the rules," he says simply, "I'm allowed to bend them a little when necessary."

With that, he extends a hand to me, an invitation to rise from the ground.

I hesitate for a moment, the goth girl's warning about washing hands flashing through my mind. But then I recall that I hadn't done anything to warrant such caution, so I take the man's hand, feeling the strength in his grip as he helps me to my feet.

"Follow me," he instructs, his voice guiding as much as his actions. He leads me to a corner of the colossal door, where I hadn't noticed before, there's a smaller door seamlessly integrated into the larger one. With a push from the man, this hidden door swings open with a soft creak, revealing a passage just wide enough for one person to step through.

As we walk, I muster up the courage to ask, "Have I missed much of it?"

The man turns his head, his green eyes meeting mine with a reassuring look. "That's unlikely," he replies with a slight, knowing smile. "The orientation can't start without me."

We emerge from the long passage into the backstage area of what appears to be a grand auditorium. The space is bustling with activity, people moving to and fro, adjusting lights and sound equipment. A woman, who seems to be the coordinator with her clipboard and headset, spots the man and immediately darts onto the stage.

The man turns to me, his expression composed yet friendly, and points towards a corner. "Pass through there and find a seat," he instructs.

I bow slightly, gratitude and relief mingling in my voice. "Thank you," I say, meaning it more than I can express. Then, I head in the direction he pointed.

Just as my hand reaches for the curtain to step into the auditorium, a voice booms from the loudspeaker, filling the space with authority. "Ladies and gentlemen, our dear freshmen. The esteemed personnel we have been waiting for has arrived. Please, give it up for the President of the School."

As a round of applause erupts, realization hits me like a wave; the man who had just shown me such unexpected kindness, who had bent the rules for me, was none other than the President of the school himself. With a mix of awe and gratitude, I push through the curtain, ready to find my seat among the crowd, now buzzing with anticipation.