The main dormitory building looms ahead — a stately, four-story structure of weathered brick and tall windows. The front doors stand open, held by a small sign that reads: Room assignments posted inside.

The lobby is quiet at this hour. A few students mill about — a llama adjusting his tie, two squirrel girls giggling over a magazine — but no one pays Y/n any mind as they pass the bulletin board and head up the staircase. The wooden steps creak softly underfoot.

The hallway on the third floor stretches long and narrow, lined with identical doors. Numbers in brass plating. 697, 699, 701.

Dorm 701.

Y/n stops. The door is unremarkable — same dark wood, same brass knob, same little window at eye level. A small placard beside it lists seven names in neat, printed type. Among them: Legoshi, Jack, Collot, Voss, Miguno, Durham. And beneath those, an empty space where Y/n's own name has been freshly inked.

From inside, muffled voices drift through the wood. A laugh. The thump of something heavy being moved. The squeak of a bed spring.