The cafeteria of Heartbreak High looked exactly as welcoming as you'd expect from a school built on crushed dreams and passive-aggressive notes.
Rows of battered tables leaned at precarious angles. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an angry swarm of bees. The food counter featured exactly two offerings: burnt toast and ice cubes. No butter. No jam. Not even despair-flavored seasoning.
Milo grabbed a tray (which immediately cracked in half) and shuffled toward a corner table where a particularly glum group of students sat under a hand-painted banner that read:
"SAD CLUB: No Positivity Allowed."
They were a lineup of emotional disasterpieces:
Dramatic Goth Girl — black lipstick, skull earrings, and a notebook titled "Why Smiling is a Lie."She was dramatically scribbling a poem with tears dripping onto the page—then immediately switched tabs on her phone to watch a puppy video and sob even harder.
Overachiever Nerd — thick glasses, eighteen color-coded notebooks, and a visible twitch every time someone said the word "average."He was hyperventilating into a paper bag labeled "IN CASE OF B+."
Brokenhearted Jock — massive, muscled, wearing a letterman jacket three sizes too small.Every five minutes, he flexed, pounded the table, and roared:"ARM WRESTLE ME, BRO. ONLY PAIN CAN HEAL PAIN."
Shy Passive-Aggressive Girl — hoodie up, bangs covering half her face.She passed Milo a sticky note without making eye contact:"Wow, you're brave. I could never wear that outfit. Good for you, though."
Milo, still rocking the banana suit and squeaky clown shoes, sighed deeply. He accepted the note with all the dignity of a man who had none left.
"Uh… hey," he said, setting down his half-tray. "I'm Milo. New transfer student. Possibly hallucinating."
The Sad Club barely reacted, except for the Goth Girl, who sniffled and said, "Everyone here is hallucinating. That's called life."
[i.d.e.a.l.] materialized helpfully beside him:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Statistical probability of fitting in here: 94%.Statistical probability of surviving the Mock Exam of Doom: ...pending."
"Mock Exam of what now?" Milo asked.
The Overachiever Nerd immediately burst into tears. "THE MOCK EXAM OF DOOM!" he wailed, scattering papers everywhere. "Nobody passes! Nobody!"
The Brokenhearted Jock flexed so hard his sleeves exploded off. "ONLY THE STRONG CAN FACE MISTRESS MISERY, BRO!"
Milo blinked. "Mistress... who?"
The Sad Club all shivered as one.
"Mistress Misery," Goth Girl whispered reverently. "Principal of Pain. Queen of Cringe. Destroyer of Self-Esteem. She rules Heartbreak High with an iron fist... wrapped in black lace gloves."
[i.d.e.a.l.] chimed in again, very unhelpfully:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Mistress Misery controls access to the memory fragment. Prepare yourself emotionally... or don't. It probably won't help."
They herded Milo toward the "Testing Wing"—a grim, crumbling annex with flickering lights and a faint smell of wet paper towels and despair.
Inside, rows of rickety desks floated slightly above the cracked floor. At the front, a massive blackboard displayed:
MOCK EXAM OF DOOM(Failure is inevitable. Good luck.)
A disembodied voice—probably Mistress Misery herself—boomed overhead:
"Begin the test. Your future (and inevitable humiliation) depends on it."
The first question appeared on the blackboard in dripping red ink:
Question 1:"If everyone secretly hates you, how will you cope?"
A) Cry in the bathroom.
B) Pretend you're too cool to care, but definitely cry later.
C) Build a secret underground bunker and live there forever.
Milo stared. "Where's option D: yell at the system and move to a mountain to become a goat farmer?"
[i.d.e.a.l.] responded dryly:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Option D unavailable. Choose wisely, Banana Boy."
Milo sighed and picked B.
The world immediately glitched—lockers spasmed, desks floated into the air, and the walls began oozing slow, sticky pink slime.
"Greeeaaat." Milo muttered.
The second question popped up:
Question 2:"Choose your fate:Eternal loneliness
or -Constant public embarrassment?"
Milo squinted. "Wait. Aren't those basically the same thing in high school?"
[i.d.e.a.l.] chirped:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Correct. No matter which you choose, you lose."
Milo groaned and picked "Constant public embarrassment," because at least then maybe someone would eventually find it funny.
Another whooooomp noise. Now the ceiling had turned into a mirror, reflecting every awkward moment of his life in vivid IMAX.
"Awesome," he muttered, watching a younger version of himself fall off a stage during a middle school talent show.
The final question appeared:
Final Question:"Write a 5,000-word essay on why you are a disappointment."
Milo's eye twitched.
"Nope," he said aloud, tossing the pen aside. "Not doing it. You hear me, Mistress Misery? I'm not playing by your rigged rules."
For a moment, the entire Testing Wing froze.
Then, slowly, the illusions started to crack—the mirror ceiling spiderwebbing with fractures, the floating desks sinking to the ground, the pink slime drying into harmless glitter.
A low rumble echoed from deeper inside the school.
[i.d.e.a.l.] beeped happily:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Congratulations!You have triggered:BOSS FIGHT — MISTRESS MISERY: FINAL EXAM."
Milo cracked his knuckles.
"Bring it on," he said, still in his banana suit.