How Incredibly Unfortunate...

Striding out of the comfort of your elegant, black car, you stare out at your new school. Like something out of a Steven King novel, with less fictional entities, however.

8:30 in the morning promotes the ideal backdrop for such a cause - dingy, cold mist hanging above the empty field like church curtains. Your coat ripples in the raw, biting wind, slapping your thighs numb.

A lanky figure looms above you.
"Welcome to Gemoa Lida High..."