The school had once been a monastery. But it had functioned as such for barely a century after its construction in the early seventeenth century.In the late eighteenth century, the monastery transformed into a school, accepting only the children of noble houses or wealthy merchants who could pay the steep tuition of a private institution.The school stood in Bluebell, a small rural town in the northern province of Fogglund. Except for three or four months each year, it was uniformly cold. A dense forest encircled it for fifteen kilometers in every direction, and there were no houses nearby—utterly isolated. All students lived in dormitories. Faculty and staff likewise lived either in school housing or in Goron, a one-and-a-half-hour drive from Bluebell.The school was quiet and peaceful. Well-trained teachers managed students skillfully, and because the rules were not overly strict, disputes between staff and students were rare. The students, sharing similar family backgrounds and educational experiences, felt familiar and comfortable with one another. Transfers in and out were not infrequent, so newcomers were met with relatively little resistance.Perhaps this place was akin to Thoreau’s Walden. In the forest surrounding the school lay a bog that everyone called “Kelly.” The older teachers referred to it as a lake. It must once have been a true lake, but now it was nothing more than a swamp.This was my brief impression of the school during my first month after enrollment.I learned I was the secret son of the actress Julia Goodman only when I turned fifteen. Julia Goodman—classic beauty with lustrous brown hair and dark eyes—was a famous actress who had twice won the Oscar for Best Actress. She was only thirty-three, married a few years earlier, with three-year-old twins.That she had a fifteen-year-old child was a hidden secret even I, her own son, did not know. Perhaps I might never have known, had she not appeared only after my father died in a car accident.Julia did not attend my father’s funeral. Only two months after he was buried did she finally come for me. Julia and I looked strikingly alike. But unlike her, always groomed under careful management, I had just passed through puberty—tall and lanky, with scrawny limbs and flaky cheeks—so at first glance the only resemblance seemed the color of our hair and eyes. Over the five years I spent in her mansion—mouth agape in wonder—I too changed little by little.After years of opulent living, by the time we stood side by side we looked enough alike that anyone would recognize us as mother and son. Then Julia decided she could no longer live with me. Once I was no longer of an age to be kept at her side, she sent me to that school. Officially, I remained an orphan; my guardian was listed under the name of Julia’s secretary. Shortly after arriving, I discovered the school was full of students whose circumstances ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ resembled mine.In a sense, it was less a school than a place of exile. Just as my existence was my mother’s weakness, the students here all bore the stains of their families: secret offspring, juvenile offenders, youngest siblings cast aside in inheritance disputes. From sixteen-year-old boys to fledgling college students in their early twenties.All of us had been hauled off to the countryside under the pretense of preparing for Oxford, art school, or, in rare cases, the Grandes Écoles. For that reason the school admitted many transfers—and likewise saw many departures, whether by transfer or withdrawal.Indeed, who would send a precious child away to an unnamed rural school as if to exile, unless that child were a useless disgrace? Unless the child were worthless, parents would hire a tutor in London or spend a fortune on donation-based admission to university rather than abandon them here.The students of this school were deemed worthless scoundrels, irritants even to their own parents. I was no exception.It was April.Despite being April, the cold was biting. I arrived in Bluebell at six o’clock, lugging everything in a single trunk. Wearing only my uniform with no coat, my teeth began to chatter immediately.I sat atop my trunk in front of the shabby pub in Bluebell, waiting for about an hour before the Cadillac sent by the school arrived. The driver was courteous, loading my trunk into the car and opening the rear door for me.Once inside, warmed by the stifling heat and sinking into the soft, plush cream-colored seat, drowsiness overcame me. My frozen body slowly thawed. I gazed at the pointed-leaf trees flitting past outside the window, and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. The driver let me sleep until we reached the school.The school was grand—so vast I feared I might lose my way. The main building, the old monastery, rose only two stories, but its breadth and lofty ceilings were immense. The dormitory stood a little apart, half-hidden by the forest. There were also stables, a polo field, a cricket ground, and tennis courts, all impeccably maintained—but I wondered how any games could be played in such a cold region.I left my trunk at the entrance and walked into the former monastery. Classes must have just ended, for it was eerily silent inside. The cold seemed to freeze the very air. I tiptoed, but my footsteps echoed loudly off the stone walls. A fresco of Christ with his disciples spanned the ceiling all the way down the corridor—a lavish beauty that made my neck ache as I looked up, step after step.Though still chilled, my tension eased as I crossed the corridor, and I began to like the school. I especially appreciated the quiet; the hush of isolation felt strangely reassuring.Soon the corridor ended at a massive wooden door. Upon opening it, warm light and the murmur of voices greeted me. While staff searched for my documents, I sat quietly in a chair, rubbing my cold hands. After signing transfer paperwork and various consent forms, an official told me which dorm room I’d been assigned.Taking the paperwork and key she handed me, I turned. From behind came an abrupt remark:“Wrap a scarf around your neck. Unlike California, Bluebell feels like winter until May.”I looked back to see her offering a green scarf. I took it and noticed her nametag: Anna. She was the first person at the school to learn my name.The driver escorted me to the dormitory. Though within walking distance of the main building, pulling my trunk made the trip burdensome.The dorm, too, was stone. Passing a garden adorned with statues and fountains, I entered a spacious foyer lit by electric lamps, where a matron-like staff member waited. I had been assigned to the top floor. We carried the trunk up to the fourth floor together.The matron was about a hand shorter than I (and indeed most people were), with neatly combed black hair and a stern demeanor. As we climbed, he explained the rules:“From midnight until six a.m., the doors lock. You cannot enter or exit, so please return to the dorm by then. There is no formal roll call, but unauthorized departure from school will result in punishment. The dining hall is also closed from midnight to six a.m. Outside those hours, you may use it freely.”I asked,“So as long as I don’t leave the school, I can stay outside the dorm?”He replied,“Yes. You may stay in the library or activity rooms—just be mindful of the door’s lock and unlock times.”We arrived at the door of the room where I would live for the next two years. The fourth floor featured a lounge and a broad balcony, and the corridor split left and right with only two doors. We stopped before the door on the left. The matron set down my trunk, bid me farewell, and departed silently—his footsteps muffled by the carpet.I took out the key—a bluish, cold bronze key—and opened the door. Inside lay a living room with a roaring fireplace: more like a cozy home than a dorm. A boy sat on a sofa before a laptop; he looked up and stared at me with wide eyes.He said,“You’re late? You said you’d be here by six.”I said nothing.“….”He asked,“Have you eaten dinner? We ate already since you were late.”“We”? Before I could answer, two other boys appeared. A blonde boy spoke:“Oh, it’s you? You’re Raymond, right? Hi, I’m Hugh.”Hugh strode forward and offered his hand. I took and shook it wordlessly. Then the other newcomer offered his hand:“Hello. I’ll be sharing the room with you.”I looked at him and took his hand.There were three boys living with me: the one at the fireplace with the laptop—George; the blonde—Hugh; and my roommate—Simon.Simon was as tall and broad-shouldered as I. He rose at dawn and went jogging the instant the doors opened, returning to fetch my share of breakfast from the dining hall. He spoke little, and since I was also quiet, we got along well.Always impeccably neat, Simon combed his chocolate-brown hair, donned a wrinkle-free uniform hung on a hanger, and polished black shoes en route to school. He never slouched—always standing with shoulders back and spine straight, his face unreadable. To me he seemed a true oddity.He wasn’t much of a scholar. Polite and well-mannered, he was more interested in drama club. He devoted himself to theater and watched films in the dorm. Yet, despite reading Beckett and Ibsen, his cinematic taste leaned toward Hollywood dramas.Often I stretched my legs over my bed’s headboard and lay down to watch the films Simon played on his monitor. At first he wore headphones, but once he realized I watched from behind him, he removed them and used the speakers.Hugh was a few centimeters shorter than Simon but solidly built—a former junior swim-champion. His broad shoulders and smooth muscles remained, and although he still practiced in the school pool, he no longer competed. Now he studied to enter Cambridge.Sociable and outgoing, I was closer to Hugh than to Simon. Actually, Hugh was friends with everyone—casually greeting even the stern matron and joking with nearly all students and staff, often bringing back gifts. Unconstrained by rules, he dressed and behaved laxly, often returning to the dorm close to midnight after lively visits to other rooms. I grew accustomed to seeing him lying shirtless by the fireplace writing papers or reading books. Among George, Hugh, and Simon, Hugh was my favorite—especially because he laughed so often.George was the tallest yet the skinniest of us, with a pale face and light-colored eyes giving him a frail, introverted air. He often skipped school and never wore his uniform, preferring a black sweater, crisp cotton trousers, and slippers as he tapped away on his laptop by the fireplace.I didn’t know exactly what he did, but his screen was filled with complex programs and formulas, so I assumed he was a skilled programmer or hacker. Once, entering the room he shared with Hugh, I saw three or four monitors on his desk and multiple computer towers—so I took him at his word. I myself could barely manage a computer card game.Despite his tech obsession, George was talkative. He responded attentively to Hugh’s chatter, and they clearly clicked—no wonder they shared a room. George was a habitual truant, so I had little contact with him at first; yet it was his gift of gab that broke the ice. He was the one who told me about Simon, Hugh, and himself—and about the fourth roommate.Now I must tell you about Jerome.From the moment I began dorm life, I could not avoid becoming aware of Jerome. Every day at four o’clock he came to our room, sitting opposite George by the fireplace. Sometimes he spoke with Simon; on days Hugh returned early, he chatted with Hugh as well. Their talk was trivial—school events, gossip about politicians or celebrities, football, games. Then precisely at six, he returned to his own room.Jerome’s room lay across the right corridor on our floor. He had it all to himself. George said it was because there weren’t enough students, but I didn’t believe that. From the moment I first saw him, I instinctively disliked him. He stood about my height with a similar build, yet somehow seemed larger and stronger. A rider by habit, his slim, lithe frame and unusually large hands gave him an imposing air.He often arrived in his riding gear—tight white breeches, black boots, an unbuttoned white shirt, and a leather riding crop. I especially hated that crop. Jerome would sometimes tease Hugh by hooking its leather loop around his chin—an uncomfortable sight.Not that he wielded it about; he seemed to come straight from the stables, resting it quietly on his thigh or casually toying with the loop on its end. Still, the sight of that crop in his hand always unsettled me.Jerome made a few attempts to be friendly. He greeted me first and spoke when we crossed paths at school. But when I kept my distance, he sensed it and ceased trying.Yet sometimes, as I read on the sofa, I would look up into his unblinking stare. At those moments I closed my book and fled to my room, feeling an inexplicable relief upon joining Simon’s film viewing.Jerome was an unpleasant presence: his inscrutable face, his solitary suite—everything about him was suspicious and unsettling.Aside from my dislike of Jerome, my new school life went smoothly.After my father died, I had been homeschooled and never attended school. Julia wanted to keep me hidden from the world. I was overwhelmed by the sudden luxury and deeply grieving my father’s loss, so I complied with her every wish.At first I clung to Julia. The thought that no one else existed for me terrified me. But over time, my grief faded, and I faced reality: since my father’s death, I had been utterly alone. Julia and I had no relationship. I was merely livestock raised in her house. She used homeschooling as an excuse to keep me from school, claimed the country was unfamiliar to forbid outings, and her methods morphed into outright imprisonment.Of course, I would one day take revenge on Julia for what she did. I don’t know—and don’t wish to know—what transpired between her and my father. He had worked in a brick factory; we grew up poor but reasonably happy.

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