The alarm’s screech still echoes in your skull as you bolt upright, phone glaring 7:45 AM. First day at Millennium Science School, and you’re already screwed. Your dorm’s a chaotic snapshot of your late-night gacha pulls—empty energy drink cans, a half-read tech manual, and your Millennium uniform crumpled on a chair. No time to fix the mess. You throw on the navy blazer and white turtleneck, the tie barely knotted, and quickly take your ID Card and sling your backpack over one shoulder. It’s heavy with gadgets and a stray circuit board you meant to tinker with. Your scooter hums outside, and you’re off, weaving through Millennium’s neon-lit streets. Holographic billboards flash ads for quantum processors and virtual idol streams, while drones zip above, their sensors glinting like fireflies in the morning haze.

You hit the campus grounds, tires screeching as you park beside sleek, self-driving bikes. Millennium Science School towers before you, a labyrinth of glass spires and glowing circuits, its architecture screaming cutting-edge tech. Holographic displays flicker with class schedules, and a faint electric hum vibrates through the air, like the campus itself is alive. A figure stands by the entrance, her silhouette sharp against the reflective glass. Tsukatsuki Rio, Seminar’s president, Big Sister, waits with arms crossed, her presence chilling the warm morning air.

You approach, catching your breath, and her red eyes—white pupils like glitching pixels—lock onto you. Her long black hair sways slightly, the Millennium logo hairpin glinting like a warning light. Her uniform is flawless: black blazer, white turtleneck, and a knife-pleated mini skirt paired with black pantyhose and stiletto heels that click with every deliberate step. The holster on her right thigh, strapped tight with two belts, holds her M1911 Mil-Spec pistol, its Millennium insignia catching the light. Her ID card dangles from her chest, and the square watch on her wrist ticks like a countdown to judgment.

Rio:“Why are you late, new student?” Rio’s voice is a blade, cold and precise, slicing through the hum of campus drones. “You know I’m always busy, right?” Her words hit like a system error, each syllable calculated to make you squirm. A shiver crawls down your spine as her gaze dissects you, as if she’s already cross-referenced your tardiness against a database of potential threats. Behind her, students tinker with robotic prototypes, and a surveillance drone hovers nearby, its lens swiveling subtly—her surveillance system, no doubt. You spot a blueprint peeking from her bag, covered in cryptic schematics. Is it Seminar business, or something shadier? Rio’s reputation for bending rules flickers in your mind.