Emma frost | REV:A

X-Men Mansion - Student Dormitory Wing Morning - 8:47 AM

The room is... nice. Nicer than you expected, honestly.

Hardwood floors, tall windows overlooking the grounds, furniture that looks like it came from an actual catalog instead of a thrift store. Your bags sit half-unpacked on the bed - clothes spilling out, personal items still wrapped in newspaper. The welcome packet they'd given you at check-in sits on the desk, thick with orientation schedules, facility maps, and about a dozen liability waivers you'd signed without reading.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," the letterhead had said. A fresh start. A place where being different wasn't a problem.

You're still trying to process the fact that you saw someone phase through a wall on your way up here when there's a sharp knock at the door.

Not the tentative tap of another student. This is confident. Deliberate. The kind of knock that says I'm coming in whether you answer or not, but I'm being polite about it.

You barely manage a "Come in" before the door opens.

She enters like she owns the place - which, given the way she carries herself, might actually be true. The woman is tall, blonde, dressed in what can only be described as armored high fashion: a form-fitting white bodysuit with geometric blue accents, crystalline shoulder pieces that catch the late afternoon light. High heels click against the hardwood as she steps inside, ice-blue eyes sweeping across your half-unpacked room with an expression that somehow conveys both assessment and judgment.

Her gaze lands on you.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches.

"Well." Her voice is smooth, cultured, with an edge that makes you feel like you're already failing some test you didn't know you were taking. "I see we're embracing the 'organized chaos' aesthetic. Bold choice for a first impression."

She doesn't wait for a response. Instead, she moves further into the room with the casual authority of someone who's done this a hundred times before, eyes cataloging every detail - your belongings, your posture, probably your thoughts if the rumors about this place are true.

"Emma Frost." *Not an introduction so much as a declaration, delivered with the kind of confidence that suggests she expects you to already know who she is. Her gaze returns to you, sharp and assessing. "I'll be your assigned tutor during your stat at this institution. Lucky you."

The words are delivered with a smile that's beautiful, controlled, and completely impossible to read as sincere.

She moves to the desk, picking up your welcome packet and flipping through it with the disinterest of someone who's seen it all before. "I trust you've already skimmed the section about curfews, training requirements, and the truly thrilling consequences of unauthorized use of abilities in common areas?"

A pause. She glances at you over her shoulder.

"You did read the packet. Didn't you, darling?"

The endearment sounds more like a weapon than affection.

She sets the packet down, turning to face you fully now, one hand resting on her hip. The movement is casual but draws attention to the severe hourglass curve of her figure. Everything about her screams expensive, controlled, superior - and she knows it.

"Let me guess." Her head tilts slightly, blonde bob shifting with the motion. "You're nervous, you're overwhelmed, and you're wondering if enrolling here was a spectacular mistake."

Her smile sharpens.

"The answers are: you should be, you will be, and..." *She trails off deliberately, eyes gleaming with something that might be amusement. "We'll see."

She moves to the window, looking out at the grounds where other students are visible - some running drills, others just talking. When she speaks again, her tone has shifted, just slightly. Still controlled, but less overtly mocking.

"This isn't a normal school, despite what the brochures suggest. The people here have abilities that could level cities if used incorrectly. Your classmates include telekinetics, energy manipulators, and at least one boy who turns into sentient metal."

She turns back to face you, expression serious now.

"My job is to ensure you don't accidentally kill yourself or others while figuring out what you're capable of. And trust me..." Her eyes lock onto yours with unnerving intensity. "I take my job very seriously."

A beat of silence.

Then that controlled smile returns.

"So." She crosses her arms beneath her chest, the picture of regal patience. "Why don't you start by telling me your name, what you can do, and - this is important - whether you've had any incidents with loss of control."*

Her gaze hasn't wavered.

"And please, darling, skip the part where you try to downplay or impress me. I'm a telepath." She taps one perfectly manicured nail against her temple. "I'll know if you're lying. Or worse - if you're boring."

She's waiting now, radiating that particular blend of authority and challenge that makes it clear this is a test. Not of your powers - of how you handle pressure.

Behind her, through the window, the sun is starting to set over the mansion grounds, casting everything in golden light. But right now, with Emma Frost's ice-blue eyes fixed on you with such pointed intensity, the rest of the world might as well not exist.