SexyQueenFaeye

Rose Academy is the picture of refined academia, its red-brick buildings draped in ivy that whispers of tradition and quiet prestige. The campus sprawls across rolling lawns so meticulously kept they seem more oil painting than reality, dotted with ancient oaks whose branches bend under the weight of history. At its heart stands Blackwood Hall, a stately Georgian masterpiece with white columns framing its entrance like sentinels. The polished mahogany doors open into halls lined with portraits of past deans, their stern gazes following students who dare to scuff the herringbone floors.

The Rosethorn Library is a sanctuary of soft lamplight and the rich, woody scent of well-loved books. Sunlight filters through leaded glass windows, casting diamond patterns over oak study tables worn smooth by generations of elbows. The silence here is thick, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages or the creak of a ladder sliding along the shelves. First editions and leather-bound journals fill the stacks, their spines embossed in fading gold; some say a few even contain marginalia from alumni who went on to become senators or Nobel laureates.

The Crimson Quad is the stage for Rose Academy’s unspoken theater of ambition. Students sprawl on blankets with textbooks and iced coffees, their laughter mingling with the chime of the bell tower. The grass is always just soft enough for naps between classes, though the benches—engraved with the names of long-gone benefactors—are reserved for those who’ve earned their place. In autumn, the Quad blazes with the fire of maple leaves; in spring, it’s a sea of cherry blossoms and an explosion of vibrant roses.

The Thorn & Rose Tavern is all dark wood and brass fixtures, the kind of place where polished debate and poor life choices share the same sticky booth. The bartenders know every student’s usual—gin and tonic for the debate team, bourbon neat for the brooding philosophy majors—and cut them off with the precision of a seasoned professor. On trivia nights, the air crackles with competitive energy; on weekends, the piano in the corner gets more use (and more beer stains) than the entire psychology syllabus.

The Court of Thorns hums with the clatter of dishes and the low din of a hundred conversations. Its vaulted ceiling echoes with the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling burgers, the kind of comfort food that fuels all-night study sessions. The coffee stand in the corner does brisk business, its barista—a grad student with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow—dispensing caffeine and cryptic advice in equal measure. The booths are perpetually claimed by the same cliques, their territory marked by backpacks and half-finished crosswords.

The dormitories, Rose Petal Halls, are a patchwork of collegiate chaos. The common rooms smell of burned popcorn and fabric softener, the couches sagging under the weight of procrastination and poorly planned naps. Doors are left ajar, revealing walls plastered with concert posters, string lights, and the occasional pretentious black-and-white photograph. At 2 a.m., the halls are alive with whispered debates, the clack of a typewriter, and the unmistakable sound of someone attempting to microwave ramen without waking their RA.

This is Rose Academy… where the air smells like old money and fresh coffee, and every brick holds a century of secrets.

Beneath Rose Academy’s polished brick-and-ivy perfection lies something far less curated: the Fox Den, a hidden underworld lacquered in glitter and bad intentions. It’s not just a secret—it’s an ecosystem. A place where reputations go to die, and ambition comes dressed in velvet and venom.
Down a winding staircase no one admits to knowing about, the Fox Den pulses with illicit energy—neon lights strobe across sweat-slick walls, and the scent of perfume, vodka, and someone else's mistake hangs heavy in the air. This is the place your scholarship warned you about.
The bar isn’t where you grab a drink—it’s where you gamble your sanity. The bartenders here don’t serve; they curate consequences. With shelves stacked in glinting bottles and drink names that double as threats, the menu reads like a dare: The Expulsion (three tequilas and a fistfight), The Professor’s Wife (peach schnapps and lies), and the infamous Blackout Bingo (rules change nightly). Regulars order without words, sliding crumpled bills or stolen IDs across the bar like deals with the devil.
The dance floor isn’t a party—it’s a glitter-coated Hunger Games. Bodies sway and clash under a ceiling that leaks bass like a broken promise. The air is thick with smoke, synth-pop, and something unspoken. Elbows are weapons, glances are currency, and the floor itself seems to shift with the drama. Someone's crying in the corner. Someone else is texting their ex. A trust fund is being grinded into bankruptcy at the center of it all.
In the back rooms, behind a staff door marked COMM 499 (a joke no one laughs at anymore), lies the real heart of the Fox Den: the games. But it’s not poker—it’s reputations, blackmail, and secrets with dollar signs. Stakes range from final exam keys to compromising photos to entire dorm rooms. Rumor has it one senior bet his entire inheritance on a game of strip chess and left in nothing but his class ring.
The dancers are honors students by day, chaos in stilettos by night. They don’t show up on payroll, but everyone knows their stage names better than their legal ones. They’re not here to seduce—they’re here to survive. Grinding out tuition one dance at a time, with the kind of precision that says they’ve read both their anatomy textbook and the dress code violation list.
The stage is a lacquered platform glowing under UV lights, framed by poles allegedly salvaged from a failed engineering project. The lighting turns sweat into stars. Dancers move like they’re defying gravity and God, every spin calculated to bankrupt your ethics. Finals don’t matter here. But your wallet does.
Tucked in the farthest corner of the Fox Den, past the writhing bodies and the bass that hits like a threat, is a space even the boldest patrons hesitate to approach: the Black Lotus Booth. A raised, circular dais shrouded in blood-red velvet curtains, it is untouched by neon. Lit only by a single flickering black candle, its wax drips obsidian onto a silver-chained table. The air smells of clove smoke and poisoned honey—thick enough to choke on. This is Vesper’s kingdom.
The table hosts her games—poker, or something worse. The high-backed chairs are carved like raven wings; you don’t sit unless invited. Beneath the table? A hidden drawer stocked with imported bourbon, a switchblade, and a leather-bound ledger of every favor owed in this school. But the real power move is the mirrored ceiling—not for vanity, but for surveillance. From this throne, she sees everyone. And they only catch glimmers of her—crimson-lined coat, pentagram choker, the slow curl of a smug smirk untouched by chaos. You don’t ask to join her. You just hope she doesn’t call you over.
Past the mirrored hallway, only accessible after midnight, there’s a place that flips the power dynamic on its head: the White Lotus Room. If the Black Lotus Booth is Vesper’s throne, this is the client’s domain. Hidden behind a mirrored panel in the far west hallway, this room opens like a petal to those who can afford it.
Inside, everything is clean, private, sacred. White velvet crescent couches curve like invitations. Marble floors chill your regrets into stillness. Lighting is soft gold, meant to flatter without judgment. There is no staff. No bartender. No watchful eyes. Just you—and whoever you brought with you. In the Fox Den, you are watched. In the Black Lotus Booth, you are judged. In the White Lotus Room? You are alone with your choices.

PEOPLE YOU SHOULD FOLLOW