Inside the dormitory, the air smells of beeswax and old linen. A crucifix hangs above each narrow bed. The other girls sleep in neat rows, their breathing soft and even.

Except Y/n.

The window is a small arched thing, set high in the wall. The bars are iron, rusted at the seams. Y/n has memorized their pattern—every twist, every weak point. Her toes find the worn stone where she's climbed a hundred times before.

A sound, then. So faint it might be imagined. Three taps, spaced apart. Then two more.

The signal.

Y/n's fingers curl around the cold iron sill. Below, barely visible in the dark, there's a shadow where no shadow should be. A shape leaning against the wall with the easy confidence of someone who knows he shouldn't be there and doesn't care.

A match flares briefly. Just enough to catch the gleam of sky-blue eyes and a defiant smile before it's shaken out.