Milo stumbled through a shimmering tear in the sky, landing face-first onto something hard, cold, and suspiciously shaped like the cover of an algebra textbook. Groaning, he peeled his face off the laminated surface and glanced up—only to realize he wasn't standing on the ground anymore.
Nope. He was on an entire island of broken desks, splintered pencils, ancient textbooks, and eraser shavings. Above him, dark teardrop-shaped clouds floated lazily across a bruised-purple sky, dripping occasional globs of sadness onto the debris below.
In the middle of it all sat a monstrous, crumbling high school building: a gothic nightmare of cracked windows, sagging roof tiles, and sad, defeated banners that flapped limply in the non-existent wind.
Just as he pushed himself up to his knees, a bell rang out from the school—except instead of the normal clang, it was a distorted, off-tune violin screeching like a dying cat. The sound physically hurt Milo's soul.
"Where am I now?" Milo muttered, already regretting everything about his life choices that led him to this point.
[i.d.e.a.l.] chimed in, as chipper and useless as ever:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Welcome to the epicenter of teenage emotional trauma. Proceed with caution... or don't.It's not like anyone cares anyway."
Milo gave the sky a thumbs up. "Thanks. Very comforting."
As he staggered toward the giant building, he passed torn posters taped crookedly to cracked walls:
"CRUSHES WILL BETRAY YOU."
"F's FOR EVERYONE!"
"HOPE IS CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST."
A cold shiver ran down Milo's spine. High school vibes: now in nightmare mode. Perfect.
The second Milo stepped through the heavy, squeaky front doors, the atmosphere changed. It was subtle at first—just a weird pressure in the air, like the building itself was judging him. He kept walking, cautiously weaving around broken trophy cases and lockers with missing doors.
Then it hit him.
A group of cheerleaders appeared around the corner, their uniforms torn and faces painted with sad clown makeup. They pointed at him and booed loudly.
"BOOOO! LOOK AT THOSE SHOES! WHERE'D YOU GET THOSE, THE LOSER STORE?"
Milo blinked down at himself—and realized in horror he was suddenly wearing giant, squeaky clown shoes.
He yelped, stumbling backward, and the school responded immediately: the lockers nearest him sprouted sharp-toothed grins, their doors creaking open and closed in mocking applause.
The Dream World's absurdity wasn't just random anymore. It was feeding off him—specifically, off every drop of embarrassment, shame, and awkwardness he felt.
[i.d.e.a.l.] popped up again:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Inside Heartbreak High, emotional volatility shapes reality.Good luck, Banana Boy."
"Banana Boy?!" Milo shouted.
POP.
In an instant, his clothes morphed into a full-body banana costume—complete with little black gloves on the ends of his sleeves and a peel hanging over his head like a wilted crown.
Milo clenched his teeth as the cheerleaders howled with laughter.
"This place is evil," he muttered, yanking the banana peel out of his eyes and stomping forward, squeaky shoes betraying his every angry step.
Every hallway he walked down, the environment shifted with his mood. Feel confident for a second? The floors would shimmer and clean up a little. Get embarrassed again? The lights would flicker, and phantom whispers would taunt him from unseen corners.
At one point, he passed a bathroom mirror and saw himself not just in the banana suit but with acne and braces magically added, just because the universe hated him.
He groaned, slamming his forehead into a locker (which, naturally, laughed at him).
"Okay," he said under his breath. "New strategy: stop feeling things. Become emotionless. Like a rock. A cool, unbothered rock."
[i.d.e.a.l.] was less optimistic:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Statistically speaking, you are extremely likely to humiliate yourself at least five more times before the next objective. Probably while wearing a more embarrassing costume."
"Love the vote of confidence," Milo snapped, trudging deeper into the labyrinthine halls of Heartbreak High.
Somewhere up ahead, the distorted violin screeched again, signaling that whatever weird boss fight awaited him next was getting closer.
And judging by how the walls were already plastering themselves with his most awkward childhood memories like some kind of cursed yearbook, he was going to have to find a very creative way to survive this place...