The Academy
My name is Manon Bannerman, born in June. According to my dad, that summer in Switzerland was oddly cool, and the day I was born, our maple tree exploded with colors more suited for autumn. He swears the leaves were so bright in the morning sun that it looked like our front lawn was on fire.
I’ve never really thought about my own safety before. My dad says I’m too trusting, always shaking his head like he can't believe we're related. I remind him that’s on him—I grew up in the same small town, surrounded by the same kind, harmless people. He insists I just want to believe people are good, but reality isn’t that simple. I counter that assuming the worst in people doesn’t help either. He says a little caution prepares you for danger, but that always felt hypothetical, until now. Because a few minutes ago, I woke up here. In… a studio?
I frown. A man—probably a guard—stands silently against the wall, staring straight ahead. Ignoring me. The only door in the room looks solid, so I throw my weight against it, shoving hard, but it doesn’t move. I sigh in frustration, scanning the nearly empty space. A black couch. No windows. No other exits.
“You can hear me, right?” I say, eyeing the guard, who’s still acting like I don’t exist. Dressed head-to-toe in black, with a leather belt and armbands, he looks every bit the part of an enforcer. I briefly considered snapping my fingers in his face, but given he’s a foot taller than me and built like he could lift a car, I decided against it.
Nothing. No reaction.
I switch tactics. “You know I’m a trainee, right? You can’t just lock me up here. I mean, I think this is my new academy, but what kind of place locks up its trainees?”
Before he can continue ignoring me, a key turns in the door. It swings open, and I immediately relax—at least a little. Another guard, identical to the first, gestures for me to follow. I don’t hesitate. Unfortunately, my silent companion follows too, boxing me in between them as we walk. Somehow, I feel just as trapped as I did inside that room.
The hallway is dimly lit and windowless, the ceilings arched, the doors all locked. The whole place reminds me of a documentary I once watched about eerie academies. A chill lingers in the air, and I tug my sweater sleeves over my fingers. My coat, gloves, and scarf—everything I had on when I boarded the plane—are gone. They weren’t in the room when I woke up.
We pass under an archway and climb a staircase. Two landings, three flights. The lead guard stops at a door and unlocks it. A wave of warm air rushes out.
Inside, the office is noticeably brighter, though the windows are hidden behind heavy curtains.
Behind a large desk stands a tall, thin woman. Her black hair is pulled into a bun so tight that just looking at it makes my head ache.
She attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite land. “Welcome to Dream Academy. I’m President Missy. I trust your trip was pleasant?” Her tone leaves no room for anything but obedience.
“I don’t remember my trip,” I admit, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze as I pick a piece of lint off my jeans. The frustration I felt downstairs suddenly seems out of place in this formal setting. “I passed out on the plane and woke up on a couch in the… Well, I’m not even sure how—”
“Training studio,” she corrects, motioning for me to sit in an armchair across from her desk. The contrast between her crisp black blazer and the frilly white blouse beneath it makes me wonder which side is real—strict and trying to seem approachable, or soft and trying to appear tough. “You were unconscious for quite some time.”
“I was locked in there,” I say, expecting at least some surprise. I glance behind me. The two guards still stand by the now-shut door, one on each side. Whether they’re here to protect her or to keep me from leaving isn’t clear. Maybe both.
Missy seems to read my thoughts. “Guards don’t speak to trainees. They only communicate with producers and staff. Now, given the hour, I suggest we skip the small talk.” She flicks her gaze toward a clock on the wall.
It reads 1:30. Judging by her phrasing and the eerily empty hallways, I’m guessing that’s a.m., not p.m. “Wait…that can’t be right.” I dart my eyes between her and the clock, half expecting someone to tell me this is a joke. Dad dropped me off at the airport a little after midnight, and I fell asleep about two hours later. “Have I been out for an entire day ? How is that even possible? Why didn’t I wake up when the plane landed? Or when I was brought here?”
“I understand you’re disoriented,” she says smoothly. “An unfortunate side effect of making sure your arrival was seamless—”
“ Side effect? ” A sick feeling twists in my stomach as I mentally run through the possibilities. My voice sharpens. “Did… did someone drug me?” Panic creeps in as I try to keep my breathing steady.
I replay my last clear memory. I had lemonade on the plane. Dad warned me a million times never to eat or drink something from someone I don’t trust, but refusing a drink from a flight attendant didn’t seem necessary.
I look at Missy, searching for some kind of reaction, but her expression stays infuriatingly blank. She doesn’t seem the least bit surprised at the accusation.
I shoot up from my chair, instincts screaming at me to run. But where? There’s no sound from outside, no hint of where I even am . “Ms. Missy, can I use the phone? I just… I just need to make a call.” I scan her desk, but there’s no sign of one.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
I swallow. “I’m sure this is a great academy, but—”
She lifts a hand, cutting me off as if she understands perfectly but isn’t interested in addressing my concerns right now. “Before you leave this office or contact anyone, you need to understand and accept the rules.” She pauses, then adds, “And I’d prefer you call me President Missy.”
I stare at her, speechless—something my best friend, Sophie, would confirm has only happened once before.
Missy motions for me to sit. “I suggest you relax and listen carefully. Some of your questions will be answered shortly.”
Reluctantly, I drop into the chair.
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by my slouched posture. The way she tilts her chin upward feels almost like she’s trying to lift me into proper form with her mind. “Your arrival was unexpected. We don’t normally accept trainees midyear—especially not in the middle of a semester.” She pauses, as if waiting for me to acknowledge this.
I force some politeness into my voice. “Well… thanks for making an exception.” The words feel stiff in my mouth. The way she says it, like I’m here for the long haul, doesn’t sit right with me.
Missy opens a black fabric-bound journal and scans the page. “Before we discuss Dream Academy and its trainees, there are three rules you must follow. They are non-negotiable and apply to both trainees and staff.” She folds her hands neatly over the papers. “The first rule: you are never to speak, write, or in any way communicate about your life outside these walls. That means not mentioning your hometown, family, last name, or any names of people you know. I understand you’re particularly outgoing, so let me be very clear—breaking this rule doesn’t just endanger you , but also your family.”
I narrow my eyes. “How would my family be in danger? This place is supposed to be safe—”
Missy cuts me off with a disapproving stare. “I also understand you’ve lived a rather sheltered life. That will change in time.”
I stay quiet, unsure what she means—or if I even want to know. Whether it’s the disorientation she mentioned or just this entire conversation, I feel like the ground has shifted beneath me.
“The second rule,” she continues, “is that leaving the academy is strictly forbidden. This institution is surrounded by dense forest, which has been rigged with traps. Leaving the perimeter isn’t just unwise—it’s extremely dangerous.”
That gets my attention. I sit up straighter. “Traps? What kind? Has anyone ever made it through them?”
“No. Never.” She answers so flatly, I get the feeling she’s had to repeat it more times than she cares to count. My eyes drift to the banner hanging on the wall behind her, purple and white, with bold letters spelling S.I.S. I don’t have time to process what it means before Missy moves on.
“The third rule,” she says, “is that harming another trainee will result in an eye-for-an-eye punishment system. Any disagreement must take place in the studio under staff supervision.”
Whatever curiosity I had about the forest quickly vanishes. My expression tightens as an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach—not the immediate, heart-pounding kind, but the kind that lingers, creeping in when you’re alone with your thoughts.
I glance at the covered windows, then at the guarded door. “Isn’t that kind of obvious? Not hurting people?”
Missy doesn’t flinch. “There have been an unusual number of injuries here. So no, it’s not obvious.” She says it with the same casual tone someone might use to announce today’s lunch special.
My throat tightens. “Injuries? What do you mean? How extreme are these classes? What exactly are people getting injured from?”
Missy regards me like a stray puppy she has no intention of taking in. “Unlike other academies, we don’t provide basic training; what we offer goes far beyond that. Dream Academy refines your existing skills and enhances your natural strengths. Take dance, for example—it’s not just about precision. It’s about executing movement under pressure. Vocals aren’t just about technique; they’re trained to become instinctual, as well as a means of perception. Instead of conventional language courses, we offer an accent refinement class and a cultural norms elective, so you can navigate different countries without betraying your origins. Attending this academy is a privilege, not a right. Our producers are among the best in the industry, and our trainees are hand-selected from across the globe. There are eighteen producers on site, and with you, Manon, that makes twenty trainees. Every position here is highly sought after, and everyone in this program understands that.” Her tone carries an unmistakable warning, as if one wrong step could mean I’m out. “Before we determine your courses, you’ll undergo both psychological and physical evaluations.” She leans back in her chair, watching me closely.
Dream Academy. My mind races. Dream. Is it a wordplay? Does it mean this isn’t real? Or that it’s a place for dreamers? My brows knit together as I try to process what this place truly is. The idea of being in a secret school surrounded by elite dancers and vocalists trained in accent manipulation is both exhilarating and unsettling.
The lights flicker briefly, emphasizing Missy’s long pause. When she speaks again, I get the eerie sensation that she can somehow read my thoughts. “Dream Academy lives up to its name. As far as the outside world is concerned, we don’t exist. Not even your parents know our location.”
So at least Dad wasn’t lying when he said he genuinely didn’t know where I was being sent.
“As you’ve likely noticed, electricity here is limited,” Missy continues. “There’s also no Internet access—no communication with the outside world whatsoever. Parental visits are arranged by the academy and approved at our discretion. Understood?”
I stare at her. That explains why she refused to let me use a phone. This level of isolation can only mean one thing—this is going to be the most intense survival training I’ve ever experienced. My pulse quickens at the realization.
“Understood,” I say cautiously.
“And you agree to the rules?”
“What choice do I—” I stop, clear my throat. “I do.”
“Good.” Missy exhales like she’s relieved to be moving on. “As I mentioned, you’re joining us late at twenty-one. One of our trainees started at fourteen, most others at seventeen. You’ll need to adjust quickly. I’ve been assured that you have the skills not just to keep up, but to excel.” Her expression suggests she’s not entirely convinced. “That said, keep a low profile. Observe and learn from the others. Limit socializing. Be punctual. Be respectful. And above all, do not cause disruption.”
I would laugh—except nothing about this is funny. She just described the complete opposite of who I am.
“You’ll have sessions with our psychologist, Dr. Randy,” Missy continues, “who will assist in your transition. For now, I suggest you get some rest. Your evaluation with Dr. Randy begins in the morning.” She gestures toward the two guards. “These gentlemen will escort you to your room. Your roommate, Sophia, will guide you through your first week. She’s been instructed to familiarize you with the basics, and I have complete confidence in her thoroughness. She’s one of our top trainees.”
“How do you spell Sophia?” I ask, already thinking of ways to gather information without directly asking for it.
Missy pauses, giving me a peculiar look.
“S-O-P-H-I-A,” she says at last, then closes her journal and rises from her chair.
I stand as well, wanting to ask more questions, but her expression makes it clear that our conversation is over.
“Thanks, President Missy. Sleep well.”
She gives a curt nod, and I head for the door. The guard with the keys unlocks it, and I follow him into the hallway. Once again, the guards position themselves so that I’m walking between them.
The only sound is the steady click of my boots against the floor. Their steps are eerily silent as we descend a staircase and enter a corridor lined with white doors—unmarked, indistinguishable from one another. The guard in front of me stops and knocks on the third door to the left. Barely a second passes before there’s the faint clink of a lock, and the door swings open.
The girl standing behind it has long, straight black hair that gleams under the light. Her dark brown eyes are sharp, her full pink lips pressed together. She gives me a once-over, her eyebrows drawing together in an expression reminiscent of Missy’s disapproving frown.
She’s wearing nothing but a plain white nightgown, yet suddenly, my mud-streaked boots and oversized sweater feel embarrassingly out of place.
“Sophia, right?” I say, stepping inside and breaking the silence with a friendly smile. “I hear we’re roommates. I’m Manon.” I extend my hand for a handshake, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, she performs a small curtsy.
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Her gaze hardens, and without a word, she locks the door behind me with a sharp click.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh,” I say quickly. “Really. Your curtsy just caught me off guard. Can we start over?” In my head, I can already hear my best friend, Sophie, scolding me for my habit of laughing at the worst times.
“It’s forgotten,” Sophia replies, though her tone suggests she’s only being polite out of obligation.
Now that I’m inside, I take in the room’s decor. A fireplace dominates the space, facing a light gray velvet couch. A small breakfast table sits near a window, its view completely blocked by heavy curtains.
“Daang,” I murmur under my breath.
“Your bedroom’s there,” Sophia says coolly, motioning to my right. Her face remains unreadable.
I follow her gaze to a door, slightly narrower than the one I just entered through.
Sophia. The name became popular in medieval times. I’m pretty sure it has Greek and Latin origins. “Did you know your name means ‘wisdom’?” I turn back to her—only to find she’s gone.
I stare at the closed door opposite mine. A lock slides into place from the other side. I hadn’t even heard her move.
She’s no Sophie, that’s for sure. And right now, I can only imagine my best friend at my house, demanding answers about where I am and why I’m not responding to her texts.
I push open the door to what will be my bedroom—at least for now. A lamp glows softly on the bedside table, next to a pitcher of water and a drinking glass. At the foot of the bed, a white nightgown identical to Sophia’s is neatly laid out. What’s missing, however, is my luggage. I consider looking for it but quickly decide I’m too drained to bother.
Kicking off my boots and peeling off my jeans, I let them fall into a heap on the floor before sinking onto the bed. The mattress is so plush it feels like I’m being swallowed by a cloud.
I reach for the hem of my sweater, ready to pull it over my head, but hesitate. Instead, I burrow under the blankets, tucking my legs beneath the warmth. With a flick of the switch, I turn off the lamp and collapse onto the pile of softness.
That’s when it hits me—the sudden, hollow ache of homesickness pressing against my chest.
I exhale, eyes fixed on the ceiling. I can handle a couple of weeks anywhere, I remind myself. I survived soccer camp last summer on a field that reeked of rotten cabbage—I'll survive this too.