"This must be the place..."
The man looked at the letter in his hand, then raised his head to study the Clock Tower and the buildings lining the street.
310 White Oak Street, Filler District.
Yes, this was definitely the place.
The man swallowed and stepped forward, only to be stopped by the guard at the entrance.
"Who are you?"
"I, I'm here to join the studio..."
The man held out his letter and Invitation to the guard. The guard took the Invitation and read it, then gave the towering, six-foot-three man before him a puzzled look.
"You're an artist here to report for work?"
"Yes. My name is Henry Dabul."
"Your identification."
"Here it is."
Dabul hurriedly pulled his identification out of his pocket and handed it over. The guard examined it carefully and checked it against his list before returning it.
"Go on in. You're the last one to report."
"I, I'm not late, am I?"
"No."
"Th-thank you..."
Dabul thanked him, then hurried into the studio with his bag on his back.
To Dabul, the place looked like an ordinary house, with nothing particularly special about it. He walked down the hallway and reached the living room. To his surprise, however, it was nothing like the living room he had imagined. Rather than the usual tables and sofas, the spacious room held five desks arranged along the walls.
On the desks sat five strange boxes. They seemed to be made of glass, and they were tilted.
A blackboard hung in the middle.
Two men and two women were already seated inside. Both young women looked to be in their teens or around twenty, brimming with youthful energy. Dabul thought they were much prettier than any of the girls he had seen in his small town. Of the