The sounds of the party roar through the dormitory's first floor like a wildfire, laughter and music spilling into the hallways. The air vibrates with energy—loud, infectious, and utterly relentless.

I’d expected tension—a night of hushed whispers and wary glances as everyone digested the day’s events. But instead, the atmosphere felt buoyant, almost celebratory. Cheerful faces blur past, laughter echoing against the walls. It seemed as though they’d decided to embrace the fleeting joy of possibly making it into Beacon, instead of dwelling on the slim odds.

Yet, as I steer Rain through the chaos—grasping her wrist more than once to stop her from going off course—a small part of me envied them. The steady pulse of the music tugged at my focus as I breathed in the sour-tasting smoke, a siren call inviting me to stay, to let go, to forget.

I shake the thought away and push forward, weaving through the multitude until the staircase comes into view. We climb to the second floor, where the din of the party fades into a welcome quiet. The air here is cooler, the atmosphere subdued.

The room we enter is spacious, built to house a full team. Its warm, practical décor gives it the feel of a compact home. Soft lighting casts long, gentle shadows on the walls, and the faint scent of polished wood lingers. Smaller, private rooms branch off to the side—spaces waiting to be claimed by a squad still in the making.

Inside, the golden-banded students are already gathered. Some sit, others lean against walls in loose clusters, their voices weaving a tapestry of chuckles and murmurs.

Ozpin is the only one who stands apart, his presence commanding the room without effort. He rises slowly as we enter, his calm demeanor cutting through the low hum of conversation.

“Ah, it seems everyone’s finally here,” he says, his voice smooth and unhurried. “Good. I’ll keep this brief.”

Before he can continue, a sharp, feminine voice cuts through the air.

“I think we’re still missing someone.”

The speaker is unfamiliar, encased in the gleaming polish of knight-like armor. But I already know who they mean.

Yang steps forward, her golden hair catching the light like a flame, her younger sister trailing close behind. “Don’t worry,” she says with an easy grin. “She’s with us.”

She flashes her golden bracelet. The small panel glows, displaying three bold letters: RBY.

The armored figure sighs, removing her helmet to reveal a warm, round face framed by chestnut hair. She slumps into a chair, her frustration evident. “What’s the point of this gathering if half of us have already started forming teams? Shouldn’t the focus be on giving an opportunity to those who actually need it?”

“Not my fault my sister and I kicked ass today,” Yang shoots back, rolling her eyes, visibly annoyed.

Before the conversation can escalate, Ozpin brings his cane down with a sharp crack against the floor. The room stills instantly.

“That’s… actually one of the reasons I’ve called you all here,” he says, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “I won’t go into too much detail, but let’s just say I have reason to suspect someone had been tampering with our test—and its participants.”

A ripple of surprise spreads like wildfire. Students exchange uneasy glances, the earlier bravado replaced by uncertainty.

“Then why not cancel the stupid test and start over?” Cardin calls from a distant corner where only his teammate accompanies him.

Ozpin exhales tiredly, shaking his head. “Because anyone bold enough to attempt infiltrating my academy wouldn’t be deterred by something so trivial. Instead, I chose to give them a chance.”

“A chance?” The question slips from my lips before I can stop it. Ozpin’s piercing gaze turns to me, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny.

“Yes,” he says, almost amused. “An appropriate test—one that would reward those willing to trample over others to earn their way into Beacon. That’s why I can now confidently say that if any… unexpected guests managed to find their way here, they are most likely in this room.”

His eyes then soften, settling on the girl in the red hood. “Though I’ll admit,” he continues, “I didn’t expect the one student I personally invited to use her Semblance to disqualify every single one of her opponents.”

Ruby laughs nervously, scratching the back of her head. “I… might’ve ruined the test for everybody else, huh?”

Ozpin takes a deep breath, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. “You’re students. Try to play the part. I’ve allowed you the privilege of forming your own teams this year because I believe your judgment, in this instance, may be more reliable than mine.”

His gaze sweeps over us one final time. “Enjoy your privileges. Don’t be too responsible. And above all, choose wisely. Spend the next four years with people who will not only complement your strengths but challenge you to grow—as Huntsmen, and as people.”

The room empties quickly after that, most students eager to escape the weight of the headmaster’s words. I’m ready to follow, relieved to avoid earning myself another moment of his scrutiny. But Rain lingers by the exit, her towering frame unmoving, arms crossed. Her stillness is deliberate, her gaze fixed as the last of the students shuffle out.

When it’s just the three of us, Ozpin pauses by the desk at the far end of the room. His hand rests lightly on his cane, and his calm eyes regard her with interest.

“Was there something you wished to discuss, Miss Zvereva?”

“Why lie to them?” she asks, her words carrying the blunt force of a mace. “You say test better if aggressive. We not aggressive. We work together. Do very well.”

Ozpin raises an eyebrow, genuine surprise flickering across his face. But the expression softens into something resembling curiosity. “You’re correct,” he says, tilting his head. “You and your partner demonstrated exceptional teamwork. It’s no small feat to trust and coordinate yourself with a stranger in the midst of chaos.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws his scroll. The faint glow of its screen illuminates his features as his fingers move with practiced ease. “Rain Zvereva,” he muses, his voice thoughtful. “I’ve had the privilege of meeting your father. A remarkable man—one of the few Faunus to reject the concept of Menagerie outright, even with his many ties to the White Fang.”

Rain’s reply is cold. “Humans fill house with cheese and tell the rats it’s not a cage.”

Ozpin’s lips twitch, a faint smile betraying neither approval nor offense. If anything, her response seems to confirm something for him.

“Enlighten me,” he says, his tone unhurried but probing. “How does a Faunus from such a proud family—one unwilling to align themselves with the White Fang—come to place her trust in a human with such ease?”

Rain’s intense gaze narrows, and the silence stretches between them like a taut string. Finally, she speaks, her words measured. “If every human jumped in front of Faunus in danger, you’d see why Menagerie’s an atrocity.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Ozpin’s smile deepens, though it carries the weight of understanding rather than humor. “An admirable perspective,” he says softly, genuine. “It speaks to your character—and your partner’s.”

He steps closer, nonchalantly making his way to the door. “The test,” he continues, “was designed to reveal intent as much as skill. Anyone… incorrectly motivated would likely draw attention to themselves by defeating everyone in their path.”

“In truth, you’d have passed simply by enduring—by staying on the test floor until most of it collapsed. After all, why would someone start attacking those around them without rhyme or reason?”

That’s when I decide to join in. “You expected these guys to figure that out on their own?”

Ozpin chuckles lightly, his words laced with a cryptic warmth. “I expected them to act as they saw fit. Some will rise by stepping on others; some will rise by lifting those around them. Both paths reveal something important. The difference,” he says, stepping out of the room, “is what happens next.”

His cane taps lightly against the floor as he walks away. “For now, enjoy the evening, both of you. You’ve earned it.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply, the door closing softly behind him. Rain doesn’t move for a long moment, her piercing eyes fixed on the door as if weighing everything he’d said. Then she turns to me, her expression as stoic as ever.

“I don’t like him,” she states, blunt as a hammer.

The bluntness of it catches me off guard, and I laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

Rain huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Still don’t like him.”

There’s something about the way she says things—so direct, incapable of giving a damn. Her face remains locked in its usual mask of quiet resolve and simmering frustration, yet her words tumble out with a strange, disarming simplicity. It’s... endearing, in its own awkward way.

I smirk, tilting my head. “C’mon, Whiskers. Why don’t we see if we can find ourselves another teammate tonight? Got anything in mind?”

She raises an eyebrow, her tail flicking playfully behind her. “Every group needs a smart, a quiet, a strong, and a handsome.”

I give her a sideways glance. “Which one am I?”

She pauses, studying me with the same intense focus she’d pointed at Ozpin moments before. Her lips quirk slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“You got good heart.”

❖

There’s still something I need to do before the night is over.

I pace through the dorms, up and down the halls, searching for Pyrrha Nikos. An hour slips by in a midst of frustration, my legs growing heavier with every step. No sign of her—not even a whisper of her presence. Finally, worn down and slick with sweat, I collapse into a corner of the common room, the hunt abandoned.

The party rages on around me, an unstoppable tide of movement and noise. Bodies surge and sway across the dance floor, silhouettes thrown against walls by the pulsing glow of neon light. Midnight has come and gone, but the energy remains electric—untamed.

I inhale deeply, allowing the thick, purple haze blanketing the room to engulf me. The air is heavy, almost syrupy, clinging to my lungs and skin with a warmth that’s both suffocating and oddly comforting. The rhythmic pounding of the bass merges with the muffled murmur of voices, dulling the sharp edges of thought.

But then… something shifts.

A presence, faint at first, but undeniable, stirs within the smoke. Not just a sensation, but a force carrying intent. Watching. Waiting. Reaching. It’s as if a predator has surfaced in this sea of indulgence, a shadow circling just beyond the edge of awareness.

My eyes snap open. I sit upright, heart pounding against my ribs. Though the presence fades, its mark lingers—a phantom pulse, not my own, vibrating insistently in my chest.

I stand, legs unsteady beneath me, and shake off the invasive sensation. Confusion swirls into curiosity, then hardens into resolve. There’s a scent now, a thread of something sweet and alluring pushing past the thick fog of smoke and sweat. It pulls me forward, deeper into the chaos.

The crowd parts around me as I move, as if some invisible force clears my path. My steps are guided by an instinct I don’t fully understand, until finally, I see her.

She stands at the heart of the party, commanding it. Elevated by swirling tendrils of violet mist, almost ethereal, a dark mirage framed by shadows. Her hands glide over the DJ table with an effortless rhythm, her every movement synchronized with the hypnotic heartbeat of the music.

Our eyes meet.

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak—she simply gestures, a flick of her wrist that carries the weight of a command. I follow the siren’s call, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing before her makeshift stage, leaning against it, out of breath.

“How?” The word escapes me, barely audible over the music.

Her laugh is low and honeyed, carrying over the noise like a melody all its own. She reaches for a massive cup on the table, taking a long, deliberate swig. The acrid scent of raw alcohol hits me immediately, sharp and overwhelming. She exhales slowly, releasing a dense, shimmering cloud of smoke that wraps around us like a curtain.

“Relax, Babyboy,” she drawls, her voice rich with amusement. “We’re just tryin’ to have a little fun and you’re just lookin’ so tense.”

She leans forward, brushing a finger against the bridge of my nose. The moment she touches me, the world shifts. My mind is pulled upward, past the lights, the smoke, the sound, until we’re standing above it all, perched on the edge of the illusion. The chaos and presence of the party feels distant now, like a dream fading into memory.

“You…” The words catch in my throat as I piece together my thoughts. “That’s why no one’s worried about passing or not... It’s you.”

Her smile widens, a flash of stark white against the dim backdrop of the dark room. “M-hm.” She tilts her head, studying me with an almost predatory curiosity. “Name’s Maroon. I give people what they want, handsome. But hey—it’s not like I’m forcing anyone to enjoy it.”

“Then why…?”

Her expression shifts, darkening with an edge of mischief. She leans closer, her voice dipping into a teasing whisper. “Because I can’t give you what your heart’s really askin’ for, Babyboy. I’m good, but not that good.”

She takes another swig from her cup, her movements slow and deliberate. I know I should be angry, frustrated even, but the emotion slips through my fingers, replaced by an unwilling smile. Maybe it’s the way her halo of wild, inky black curls frames her face, or the way her glowing red eyes seem to cut through me with disarming precision. Or maybe it’s the raw truth she carries so easily, a truth I can’t deny.

Maroon watches me, her features softening into something contemplative. The faint light catches against her shiny ebony skin as she shifts, curious, as though she’s deciding what to make of me. Then, with an almost lazy gesture, she extends her cup toward me.

The smell alone is enough to knock me back—sharp, biting, and undoubtedly lethal. Some kind of homebrew mixture brough straight from hell. I shake my head, and she laughs again, a low, throaty sound that wraps around me like the smoke curling from her lips.

Instead of pushing, she quirks an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart? C’mon, a girl take a little peek.”

An idea sparks in my mind. “Could you… get a message out for me? I’ve two places on my team, if Pyrrha Nikos would take one… Let’s just say the other can be saved for fun.”

Maroon leans over and into the table, a flicker of sultry mischief lighting up her half-lidded, wine-red eyes. For a moment, she just watches me, the faint curl of her lips hinting at an absent smile. Then, with a smooth motion, she rolls over and leans into the mic.

Her voice booms through the speakers. “Alright, party people! We’re looking for Pyrrha Nikos, the one and lonely. Can someone find my girl? Night’s almost over, and we’ll be needing her hips on this dance floor to close things out.”

The crowd responds with scattered laughter, a mix of whistles and murmurs rippling through the haze. But after a few repeats of the announcement, it becomes clear—Pyrrha isn’t here.

The lack of something to do doesn’t really sit well on my chest, and I feel the exhaustion of the day catch up with me. With a sigh, I decide I’ve had enough stepping into the cold embrace of the night. The chaotic energy of the party fades behind me, replaced by a sharp, biting chill that clears my head like a slap to the face.

I wander aimlessly for a while, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots the only sound accompanying me. Eventually, I find myself in the soft halo of a flickering lamppost, a lonely wooden bench beneath it. I sink onto the bench with a heavy exhale, letting the stillness press against me.

My thoughts are a tangled mess, circling back to the same frustrations I can’t seem to let go of. On one hand, I’ve been here—on Remnant—for less than a month. None of this should matter as much as it does. This isn’t even part of my mission. So what if things aren’t going exactly as planned?

On the other hand… Well, fuck me.

“Wow,” a cheerful voice breaks the silence, startling me. “You two must’ve really done a number on each other if the whiplash’s this bad.”

I look up to find Yang Xiao Long standing over me, her grin as wide and mischievous as ever. The flickering light catches the fiery strands of her hair, making it shimmer like molten gold.

“Crying over spilled tits?” she quips, leaning closer with a mockingly concerned expression.

“What? No,” I stammer, sitting up straighter, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “I’m just… tired. That’s all. You know, getting into Beacon, training for years—best day of our lives, right?”

She plops down beside me, her fiery hair catching the lamplight. “She’s in our room,” Yang says casually, her grin softening into something more empathetic. “If it makes you feel better, she looked pretty miserable too.”

I blink, caught off guard. Swallowing my pride, I glance back at her. “Does… does everyone just know?”

Yang just laughs. “Well, when you make a scene on your first day of school… yeah, pretty much. You know how it is.”

I manage a shrug, forcing a half-smile. “Guess people just suck, here and everywhere.”

Silence stretches between us—not awkward, just easy. For all her teasing, Yang doesn’t push further. She just sits there, the warmth of her presence pushing back the cold. A quiet psst catches my attention as she cracks open a can of beer. She takes a long sip, then wordlessly hands it over.

I eye the can for a moment before accepting. The cheap beer tastes as bad as I expect—like piss—but for some reason, it doesn’t matter. I don’t even notice the taste until I’ve drained half of it.

“What is this? Your charity of the day?” I finally ask, laughing softly at myself.

Yang smirks, shaking her head. “Nah. Just thought… if someone teamed up with my girl to try and beat my ass, I’d probably want to punch them in the face. You think you’re having a bad day, then an asshole like me shows up…”

Her words trail off, but there’s no malice in them, just a strange kind of honesty.

“You’re… surprisingly good at giving a damn about people.” I pass the can back to her. “But you didn’t come out here just for that, did you?”

Yang rolls her eyes, smirking like she’s been caught. “Heard you were looking for Pyrrha. Figured I’d let you know… I tried shooting my shot with her earlier today. Didn’t go well. She’s not looking to join a team… or much of anything, really. She looked almost as bad as you two.”

“And what about today made you think I’m amazing with girls and might somehow change her mind?”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Hey, you’re the one who got a bad bitch bawling her eyes out. I just needed to see if it was for the right reasons.”

I turn to her slowly, arching an eyebrow. “And if things hadn’t gone so well?”

Yang takes her time, sipping her drink and spinning the can idly in her hands. “Well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time I walk away from a party to take care of a bad boy.”

Quietly, I reach into my inventory, pulling out [The Contender] and pressing the cold barrel lightly against the bare skin of her side. “If you love losing that much, I can still kick your ass. I really wanted Blake on my team.”

She freezes, her lavender eyes widening in surprise before narrowing as she matches my gaze. Slowly, her expression shifts to one of amused defiance. Without missing a beat, Yang stands and dusts herself off. “Don’t you have enough trouble without trying to blow a load all over my back?”

Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel, her golden hair swaying behind her as she saunters off. “I’ll keep an eye on your girl,” she calls over her shoulder. “So you better make sure Pyrrha doesn’t quit before I get my shot at her.”

Her words linger in the cold night air as she disappears, back towards the shadow of the dorm’s building

It’s… strange. Talking to her didn’t solve anything, not really, but somehow, I feel lighter. Maybe it’s her confidence, that reckless warmth she seems to radiate without trying. Yang Xiao Long—definitely someone I wouldn’t mind having on my side.

But I guess you can’t have every bad girl in town.

“Shame.”