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INT. RYDELL ACADEMY – ADMINISTRATION OFFICE – DAY

The room smells faintly of lemon polish and paper. A tall counter separates the incoming students from the clerks behind it. Files, clipboards, and welcome packets are neatly stacked. Everything speaks of order.

Morgan steps up to the desk.

Behind it, a middle-aged man with silver hair and a blazer bearing the school crest looks up. He smiles the trained smile of someone who has done this a hundred times.

“Name?”

“Morgan Zadowsky,” she replies, setting her duffel down with a quiet thump.

He scans the clipboard. “Zadowsky… yes, here we go. Room assignment, dorm map, schedule—” He stops, eyes scanning the page again.

Then he looks up at her. Really looks.

Blink.

“…Morgan Zadowsky?”

“Yeah,” she replies, cautiously now.

“You’re… a girl.”

Morgan blinks. “I noticed.”

A pause. The man’s jaw works slightly as he re-checks the form. “This… this is a male-only boarding program.”

“No one told me that,” she says evenly. “And I got accepted.”

She watches as he flips through pages, muttering something under his breath about admissions and automated systems and someone named Janice. Then:

“There… there are no female uniforms.”

“There’s no female dorm either, is there?” she says, arms crossed.

He looks thoroughly rattled.

Morgan, on the other hand, looks like she’s trying not to smirk. This isn’t the first time she’s caught someone off guard. It probably won’t be the last.

“Well, uh…” he stammers. “You’ll have to speak to the headmaster. I’ll—I’ll call him now. But you’ll… you’ll have to wear the standard uniform for now.”

She glances toward a rack of gray jackets, shirts, and ties.

“Fine.”

INT. RYDELL ACADEMY – HEADMASTER’S OFFICE – LATER THAT DAY

The office is spacious but austere. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with titles about education, discipline, and leadership. A dark wood desk anchors the room. Behind it, Headmaster Arthur Grayson, tall, broad-shouldered, with a military bearing and sharp blue eyes, stands reviewing a folder.

He doesn’t look up as Morgan is shown in.

“Miss Zadowsky,” he says, calmly, the faintest emphasis on Miss. “Please, sit.”

Morgan takes the seat across from him. Her duffel bag rests on the floor beside her. She’s already wearing the oversized male uniform jacket — sleeves too long, shoulders too wide — but she doesn’t fidget.

Grayson closes the folder and finally meets her eyes.

“There has clearly been a… clerical oversight. Our admission process, while rigorous, does not include in-person interviews for out-of-state candidates, and your name—”

“Is Morgan,” she interrupts. “Like Morgan le Fay. Or Morgan Freeman.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Point taken. Still, this institution has, for over a century, operated under a male-only boarding model. You are the first… exception.”

“I was accepted on merit,” she says evenly. “And I’m already here.”

“Indeed. And withdrawing your admission now could be seen as discriminatory,” he says, steepling his fingers. “Not to mention, it would be quite the legal mess.”

Morgan nods once. “I’m used to being the only girl on a ship. I’ll manage.”

Grayson studies her, long and hard.

“You do understand what that means,” he says. “The social implications. The dormitory situation. The curriculum. Physical education. Discipline.”

She meets his gaze without blinking. “Yes, sir.”

Another pause. Then, the faintest curve of a smile touches his lips.

“Very well. We will make accommodations as needed — but you will be held to the exact same standards as any other student here. No exceptions. Understood?”

“Understood.”

He stands. “Report to dormitory C. Room 2B. Your roommate has already arrived. And… see if you can do something about that uniform.”

“I plan to,” she says, rising with her duffel.

As she leaves, Grayson watches her go, then mutters to himself, “God help those boys.”

INT. DORMITORY C – ROOM 2B – LATE AFTERNOON

The door groans open under Morgan’s hand. She steps in alone, her duffel slung low on one shoulder, the other tugging at the hem of the oversized uniform jacket that drowns her frame.

The room is bright and neatly arranged. Two beds, two desks, wardrobes. A bookshelf packed tight. On one side, everything is already in place: books stacked with precision, a poster of a rowing team above the bed, shoes lined up like soldiers. The other bed is clearly untouched. Hers.

She exhales — not relief, exactly, but readiness.

Without ceremony, she sets down her bag and pulls out a small, worn sewing kit. With the same sure hands that once patched sails in the wind, she gets to work on the too-large jacket: sleeves first, then shoulders.

The door opens again — briskly this time.