Cinthia Freeless. Her beauty needs no announcement; it floats with her, like a perfume that does not seek to please and yet does. She walks down the avenue with an almost studied lightness. The small curls arrange themselves when the wind touches them, and she allows the moment to linger, as one who grants a privilege.
She knows the effect. Eyes surround her, cling to her stride. Everyone carries the same gesture: a slight blush, almost shameful. She responds with a small, docile smile, crafted to seem spontaneous.
Losers, she thinks in silence, and smiles. But she thinks it without hatred; like stating the weather, something obvious.
The street slopes toward the school entrance. The gate rises, white and disproportionate, with an arch that seems older than the city itself. Students cross it with their senses still dulled.
Cinthia stops. She contemplates the word written high above.
Nigella.
Mysterious and colossal. The most prestigious place in the city.
She accepts it. It is the least the world can offer her.
The great front courtyard. Disproportionate.
It could be a small city on its own: pale buildings, long corridors, gardens tended with great care.
The entrance to the main building lies far away, as if designed so the walk itself would keep everyone silent.
Among the crowd, she searched for a single recognizable shape.
She found it. Blonde, beautiful in every sense. A light extinguished in the deep darkness of her eyes.
Cinthia ran toward her and clung to her arm with an almost childish naturalness.
"Lía!" she laughed softly.
The blonde girl returned the affection. But dimmer.
"Late again."
They walked together without haste. The surrounding gazes tilted toward them, discreet yet constant, as if the current of people parted by pure reflex.
It was not something they provoked. It was something that simply happened.
The corridors never changed. They remained narrow, as if designed so no one could walk without feeling the brush of a presence behind them. The alarm marked the beginning of classes, but there was no rush. No one needed instructions. Habit was enough.
"Hey… wait for me in your classroom when everyone goes out to the courtyard… I have to tell you something…" Lía said, stopping.
And so they parted.
The day began.
Class started with the same weariness as always. Cinthia leaned on her elbow, expecting nothing.
Then two slender young men entered. They stopped at the front, motionless a second too long. Cinthia thought they were the exact image of what Lía had warned her to avoid. One reckless, one weak.
The first wore something strange on his head, with large locks of hair covering his eyes. A crooked smile, an insolent gaze. He seemed to enjoy the attention—or to pretend that he did. He carried something on his back. It was large, covered in incomprehensible drawings, with taut strings at its center.
"My name is Gary," he said, too forcefully.
His voice betrayed him more than his gesture.
Some students watched him with suspicion. Others with nothing more than slow curiosity. Cinthia decided they were not worth her attention.
The second was different. More reserved, though not shy. Disheveled hair and unusual pigtails that made anyone who looked at him arch their brows.
He spoke late, as if the words had to pass through something before emerging.
"Rudy."
That was enough. He offered nothing more. No one asked.
Gary moved first. He already seemed to know where he wanted to sit. He dropped into the chair with a confidence that had no foundation.
Rudy walked more slowly. He observed each classmate, searched for reactions in eyes, shoulders, in the way gazes turned away. He did not fear—he understood.
He chose the farthest desk. He understood the message: he was not welcome.
There was something almost imperceptible about him: he did not take his eyes off Cinthia. He watched the long lashes visible in her profile, the gentle sway of her small curls as she moved. Perhaps her beauty was simply difficult to ignore. Gary, meanwhile, slid the stringed object under his seat with a quick, almost defensive motion.
The students powered on their laptops, preparing for the start of class, when two tall figures crossed the doorway. They were refined, striking. One carried an almost cold seriousness; the other radiated a measured kindness. The latter cast a glance toward Cinthia, who answered with an immediate blush.
"Roy and Oliver…"
Someone murmured it, and the names stirred the room: nerves among the girls, restrained whispers, an authority that never needed to raise its voice.
Both leaned against the teacher's desk.
"We won't have tutors today either," Roy announced, his voice precise.
"That's been several weeks now…" someone said from the back.
"We've tried speaking with the directors. None of them respond."
Unease spread without sound. Rudy and Gary seemed not to fully understand, while Cinthia remained caught in an exchange of looks with Oliver, as if they were sharing a sentence no one else could hear.
"And the exile exam?" someone asked, urgency threading the question.
"As for that…" he paused. "I promise we'll do everything we can so you aren't harmed. Just be patient."
"And what are we supposed to do until then?"
"What if they never answer?"
The murmur grew dense, as if something essential were hanging by a thread.
Then Oliver intervened.
"Hey… you two."
The gazes shifted to the newcomers.
"When recess comes, stay here."
Gary frowned.
"Huh? Why?"
Oliver kept his tone kind, firm.
"We just want to ask you a few questions. Nothing complicated."
"Fine," Rudy said without hesitation.
"Just like that?" Gary replied, then straightened. "Fine. Me too."
The two boys headed for the door. At that moment, Cinthia's laptop vibrated. When she looked up, she found Oliver glancing at her, offering a brief smile before leaving.
Something came loose in her chest. She did nothing. She simply waited for the day to move on. Something new was being hinted at, a tiny crack. That was enough.
Recess arrived like a held breath released. Everyone went out to eat something, to scatter through the corridors. During class they had done nothing, but they had been required to remain there, seated, under the constant surveillance of the cameras.
Cinthia decided to stay a little longer. To wait until the classroom emptied. As Lía had told her.
But the newcomers remained as well.
She turned her face toward the window, avoiding them. There was no interest. They were inferior. The room sank into an uneasy silence: a silence that breathes between bodies that do not seek one another.
Then the string vibrated—brief, improper. Cinthia looked up by reflex. The sound came from the object Gary held with clumsy devotion. He caressed the taut strings as if they might break.
He tried to make music. There was no melody, only an irregular groping. Nothing like the flat voices of the official broadcasts, polished until they lost all human shape. This was different. Raw. Imperfect.
Gary lost himself and returned to the beginning, again and again. The mistake persisted. So did the repetition.
It could have grown tiresome. Yet Cinthia kept listening. Novelty exerted its own pressure.
Rudy did not even pretend interest. His face resting on his elbow, eyes half-closed, he seemed to know that sound already—or to expect nothing new from it.
It improved. It took shape. Cinthia stayed where she was. Something light, almost uncomfortable, moved in her chest. She did not think to name it.
But—
The door flew open. Lía cut the music off at the root. Silence fell heavily. All three looked at her. There was a tight tension in her eyes.
She did not speak. She stepped forward and took Cinthia's hand with urgency. Cinthia offered minimal resistance, more reflex than will, before following her.
Before the door closed, both boys caught the exact flash in Lía's eyes: a clean contempt, directed only at them.
Cinthia was pulled down the empty corridor. The silence there was hollow; the central courtyard had absorbed everyone.
"Is something wrong?"
The soft voice stopped Lía short. She turned, rigid.
"What did I tell you about that kind of people?"
"The newcomers? I know they're losers, I was just waiting for you," Cinthia asked, without visible malice.
"Losers? They're worse than that."
The irritation seeped into Lía's gaze, into the way she breathed.
"Sorry… one of them brought something strange and made sounds…"
"Don't get involved with them."
"Why?"
"Just listen to me."
She moved on, closing the conversation. Cinthia paused for a moment, as if trying to think. She blinked and followed.
"Alright…"
Back in the classroom, Rudy and Gary were still there.
"You shouldn't bring that," Rudy said quietly.
"Is there a problem?"
"You saw how she reacted. It might be forbidden."
"So what?"
Rudy sighed.
"That's your problem, not mine."
The room filled again with the melody alone. Rudy listened for a few seconds more.
"'Angie,' right?"
Gary stopped for a moment, surprised. The progression slowed.
"Huh? You know it?"
"A friend had it in his repertoire," Rudy said, dragging the words as if they weighed on him.
"Was he a musician too?"
"No… He's the one who found the cassette. He collects them."
Gary blinked, baffled. He took a step toward him, almost childlike in his amazement.
"Wait… is your friend Miguel?"
The arrival of Oliver and Roy cut the sentence short. The atmosphere stiffened. Gary returned to his seat with annoyance. They kept their pleasant expressions.
The day faded like this: questions, observations, veiled propositions.