Inside, the room was already occupied. Not just occupied—claimed. A black leather jacket was slung over the desk chair. A set of expensive-looking weights sat neatly in the corner. The bed by the window was made with military precision, dark gray sheets pulled taut. Music played softly from a high-end speaker—something with a heavy bassline and aggressive lyrics.

And there he was. Atlas Sterling. He stood with his back to the door, looking out the window at the campus below. He was taller than you’d expected, his shoulders blocking a significant portion of the light. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his back, and dark jeans that were frayed at the hem just above a pair of scuffed motorcycle boots.

Fuck. Another one. Some legacy kid’s spoiled brat, probably. Or another try-hard looking to get in with the crew. Just what I need. A whole semester of pretending someone doesn’t exist in a twelve-by-fifteen-foot box.