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Mochi's cheeks flushed crimson, her gaze darting nervously between the two vibrant personalities. "Uh... wh-where exactly am I?" she murmured, her voice a reedy whisper, soft as a marshmallow exhale.

Whiteboard, a luminous, floating contraption, made a precise gesture, as if adjusting an impeccably tied, nonexistent cravat. "You are now formally enrolled in the Black Hall of Conceptualization, affectionately abbreviated as B.B.H.C. This institution represents a pioneering, scrupulously designed domain for the intellectually promising and emotionally vulnerable youth of your generation."

Ms. Highlighter, a vibrant burst of color and effervescent energy, interjected, "Yup! Think of it as school, but utterly extraordinary and intricately programmed! And the quintessential detail? You'll be residing here! Permanently! Or until we decree otherwise! Whichever milestone arrives first! Isn't that perfectly marvelous?"

Mochi blinked again, a tremor in her voice. "...Wait. I-I'm sorry-permanently?"

"Oh, precious..." Ms. Highlighter cooed, tapping Mochi gently on the head with the distinct cap of her vibrant marker. "Don't you fret! You'll assimilate swiftly once you embrace the atmosphere. Expect endless clubs, captivating studies, grand quests of self-discovery, even a touch of dramatic friendships-utterly thrilling!"

"We operate under stringent directives which demand unwavering adherence and precise obedience," Mr. Whiteboard added, manifesting a shimmering digital logbook that materialized in the air beside him. His form, being an advanced, hovering interface, remained gracefully suspended next to Highlighter. He unfurled the spectral pages. "No physical altercations. No manipulation of the simulation's core code. Maintain decorum during instructional periods. All interactions with our esteemed system architects, staff, and faculty within B.B.H.C. must be meticulously chronicled. And, under no circumstances, are you to traverse the south wing's subterranean levels after twilight."

Mochi raised her hand tentatively. "W-why, precisely?"

"System anomalies," Whiteboard stated simply.

"Specters!" Highlighter chirped, irrepressibly.

"Oh." Mochi whispered softly.

A profound stillness enveloped the chamber, so absolute that one might discern the faint reverberations of distant digital processes.

"Excellent," Whiteboard declared, his logbook vanishing into thin air. "Our temporal allocation is exhausted. Your cohorts await. Highlighter, the initiation sequence."

Highlighter's grin widened as she depressed a concealed console beneath her desk.

Chime!

A surge of energy pulsed beneath Mochi, the floor transforming into a blinding mosaic of code and light that consumed her in a shimmering vortex. In the space of a breath, she vanished, leaving only an echo of where she had been.

Mochi materialized with a soft impact, finding herself in a surreal corridor, a labyrinthine school hallway defying all laws of physics. Gravity seemed optional; lockers hovered detached from the floor, while entire classrooms slowly revolved on unseen axes. Luminescent signs advertised arcane clubs with names she couldn't decipher, and a chrome vending machine hummed with an unsettling, intelligent awareness.

Before her stood ten other individuals, each as out of place as she felt. Their gazes converged on her, a collective ripple of attention. Their faces reflected a spectrum of reactions: some bore expressions of guarded curiosity, others a palpable disdain, and a few mirrored the profound, disorienting confusion that churned within Mochi herself.

"New arrival?" A smooth voice cut through the silence. A boy with sleek aviator sunglasses, perched nonchalantly against a suspended locker, regarded her with an air of practiced indifference. His expensive attire and aloof demeanor projected an undeniable, curated coolness.

"Oh, she's like a marshmallow!" chirped a girl, her voice bright with unreserved enthusiasm. She bounced on the balls of her feet, a pair of pristine white and periwinkle pom-poms clutched firmly in her hands, her perpetually cheerful cheerleader uniform defying all conventional dress codes.

From the shadowed corner, a low "Huh." rumbled. A boy, his figure a study in stillness, leaned against the wall, a sleek, matte-black guitar case strapped to his back. Short, intricate dreadlocks framed a face adorned with multiple silver piercings, including a prominent industrial bar glinting through the gloom.

Then...

"Oh great...!" a voice, sharp and dismissive as shattered glass, sliced through the air, dripping with blatant disdain. A tall girl swept forward, her every movement a calculated display of power. Her hair, a cascading waterfall of coral-pink, shimmered with an almost artificial perfection, catching the dim light in a dazzling, intimidating display. Her gaze, sharp and critical, swept over Mochi, then landed with venomous precision. "Another powdered sugar puff. Totally what we were missing."

Mochi's voice wobbled, a tiny "O-oh... h-hi..!" as she shifted her weight.

"Don't bother trying to make friends," Lipstick snapped, her words sharp as a freshly sharpened pencil. "You'll be old news in, like, three hours tops."

Mochi swallowed hard, her throat feeling suddenly dry.

"Ohhh, I like heeer!" Pom-Pom whispered with a dreamy giggle, bouncing gently. "She's so super squishyyyyy!"

A girl made of creamy custard, with a swirl of caramel on her head - Flan - slouched near them, halfway through a sip of soda. Her official Student Council armband gleamed on her prosthetic arm. "Mmn... wake me up when this conversation actually matters," she grumbled, before sliding to the floor and restarting her nap.

From the back, a truly stinky, spiky Durian grunted, pointing a finger. His spiky green hair and patched-up clothes looked like they'd come from a very, very lost thrift store, and his rotten scent made everyone clutch their noses. "She doesn't smell like wires. Or chemicals. Weird."

"Don't sniff people, dude!" shouted a red Race Car, zipping around with boundless energy. Even though he used a wheelchair, he was as bouncy and wild as ever, wearing cool racing gear instead of a uniform - it looked customized just for him. "Hey! New student! Do you play any sports? No? That's okay, you will! I'm president of, like, six sports clubs. Let's GO!"

A pair of serious eyes peered over a clipboard. Yoga Ball, a girl dressed completely in black (even her makeup), stood stiffly to the side. "Her posture is weak. Her limbs are soft. She will probably crumble under homework pressure."

"Good heavens," moaned Dusty Miller from a nearby bench, rolling his eyes as if the world was a great bother. He looked perfectly polished, like a prince straight out of a storybook. "Are we seriously letting just anyone in now?"

And finally.. the man with the guitar case moved.

Just a step closer.

Still unreadable. Still unreadably there.

Mochi locked eyes with him.

He said nothing.

But she felt it.

Welcome to Eleven Point Oh.

This... was going to be weird.