They say every school has its secrets.

Ours just happens to have… more bodies, more rumors,

and more attitude than the entire city combined.

The bell hadn’t even rung when the new transfer student fainted outside Section F’s hallway.

Not because of the heat.

Not because of nerves.

But because someone had slipped a note into his locker —

one sentence, written in red ink:

“WELCOME TO SECTION F. SURVIVAL RATE: 20 TO 1.”

The teachers pretended not to see.

The students pretended not to care.

And Section F?

Well, they watched from afar, leaning against the railing like a pack of bored predators waiting for entertainment.

Section F wasn’t the top class.

It wasn’t the bottom class.

It was the class no one talked about.

The one that stayed in the farthest wing of the building —

the wing everyone insisted was under renovation,

even though the lights were always on,

and the screams (sometimes laughter… sometimes not)

could be heard echoing down the empty corridor.

Some say the students of Section F run the school.

Some say they run more than that —

the streets after dark, the deals made in whispers,

the secrets the teachers would rather die than admit.

No one knows which version is true.

But everyone knows this:

Once you enter Section F,

you don’t come out the same.

If you come out at all.

And somewhere inside that classroom,

behind those scratched desks and cracked windows,

twenty pairs of eyes are already waiting.

Watching.

Judging.

Smirking.

Ready for the twenty-first to walk in.

Welcome to Section F.

Try not to die… or worse,

embarrass yourself.