The sunlight spilled through the tall windows of St. Celeste's, pale and cold, cutting across the polished floors of the dormitory. Amina groaned, tugging her uniform sweater tighter around her. She hadn't slept well-her thoughts had been too loud, too restless. Dreams of Havana's chaos had given way to a cold reality: the academy was unforgiving, rigid, and entirely different from the world she'd known.
Breakfast was silent, a stiff line of girls standing at attention, trays clattering against the metal counters. The smell of toast and boiled eggs did little to warm the room; everything smelled antiseptic, measured, controlled. Amina slid her tray along mechanically, glancing at the other students. They were polished, composed, and utterly serious, hair tied neatly, shoes perfectly shined, eyes alert but dull with obedience. Not a single one laughed, not a single one dared a glance that lingered too long.
"Sit," a voice barked. A girl in a grey blazer gestured to a table near the back. Amina obeyed instinctively, sliding into the seat opposite Clara. Her roommate looked calm, composed, hands folded neatly in front of her. Amina studied her carefully, noting the slight tremor in Clara's fingers as they rested on the table. There was tension there, a flicker of unease masked by her polite smile. Perfect. Interesting.
The first bell rang sharply, echoing through the hallways like a command. Amina followed the line of girls down the long corridor, the sound of polished shoes clicking against the marble floor, the weight of the walls pressing in around her. Every door they passed had a plaque: Chapel, Library, Class of the Saints, Dormitories. Everything was labelled, organized, contained. There was no room for improvisation. No room for mistakes.
Their first class was Theology. The teacher, Sister Beatriz, moved through the room with slow, deliberate steps. Her eyes were sharp, scanning every student with a mixture of scrutiny and judgment. Amina sank into her chair, feeling the weight of her every thought under Sister Beatriz's gaze. She listened, or at least pretended to, as the nun spoke of devotion, discipline, and the importance of obedience. Words that should have comforted her now felt like chains wrapping around her ribs.
Between classes, the halls buzzed softly with whispers. Amina overheard fragments of conversations: "Did you hear about the new girl?" "She's from Cuba. Wild, probably." "Be careful around her." She felt the thrill of notoriety even before anyone knew her. That spark of defiance flickered in her chest-maybe this place wouldn't be able to tame her after all.
By mid-morning, they were led to the chapel. Light poured through stained glass, casting coloured patterns across the cold stone floor. The pews smelled of wax and polished wood. Amina knelt, hands pressed together, heart beating fast, and recited the prayers she had long ago stopped believing in. Her mind wandered back to Havana: the music, the parties, the late-night laughter. This silence, this discipline-it felt like a cage. And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the irritation, she felt alive. Alive in a way that the chaos had never quite captured: alive because she was conscious, aware, and resisting.
Lunch was another lesson in order. Girls filed into the dining hall, trays in hand, faces solemn. Amina sat with Clara, who had chosen a corner table like she had been told. Their conversation was quiet, whispered, cautious. "You'll get used to it," Clara murmured, picking at her salad. "I… I think so," Amina replied, though the words felt hollow. She wasn't here to get used to it. She was here to survive it, bend it, and maybe, just maybe, exploit it.
After lunch, there was a tour of the gardens and the academic wing. Everything was immaculate, from the statues of saints to the rows of perfectly trimmed hedges. Amina noticed the patterns in the tiles, the meticulous symmetry of the windows, the cold precision of the entire institution. The perfection made her stomach twist-not in awe, but in quiet defiance. Somewhere inside her, a voice whispered: you're not supposed to belong here. You don't belong here. Find the cracks, Amina.
By evening, exhaustion weighed heavily on her, though adrenaline still thrummed in her veins. She and Clara returned to the room, carrying their bags, their bodies aching from standing in perfect lines all day. Amina flopped onto the bed dramatically, staring at the ceiling. "This place is insane," she muttered. Clara chuckled softly, shaking her head.
"You'll find your rhythm," Clara said, but there was uncertainty in her voice, the kind of hesitation Amina recognized-hesitation that could be manipulated. That could be… fun.
Amina smiled faintly to herself. She had survived the first day, and more importantly, she had already begun noticing the patterns, the weaknesses, the subtle spaces where rules might bend. The quiet thrill of rebellion began to take shape in her chest, coiled and ready to strike. She could bring chaos here, even if only in small doses. And maybe, she thought, she could bring someone else along for the ride.
That night, the dormitory was silent, every girl tucked under her covers. Amina lay awake, listening to the distant hum of the city outside the windows, the perfect stillness of the academy pressing in. She imagined Havana again-neon lights, music, freedom-and let herself smile faintly in the dark. Tomorrow, she decided, she would find her first opportunity. The first crack in the perfect order. And someone would follow her through it.