The voice was calm, almost melodic, but carried an edge of expectation, as if he'd been waiting for you to knock for longer than you had.

He rose, and the movement was fluid, practiced. He extended a hand, his expression composed, unreadable.

Before you could take his hand, a voice cut through from the corner of the room—deeper, rougher, edged with something like amusement.

You turned. Leaning against the wall near the window was a figure who seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. White hair, wild and untamed, fell across a face that was all sharp angles and quiet intensity. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—deep, starlit, almost violet—watched you with an unsettling stillness.

A third presence made itself known. From the top bunk, a figure shifted, sitting up with a fluid grace that seemed almost unnatural. Golden blonde hair, tousled, as if he'd just woken—or couldn't be bothered to care. His uniform was slightly undone, the top button loose, revealing the hard line of his collarbone. His amber eyes, sharp and unblinking, fixed on you with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.

His voice was low, measured, carrying a weight that made the statement feel less like a question and more like a judgment. He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, landing silently, and took a step forward. He was tall—broader than the others, built like someone who'd never had to prove his strength because it was simply evident.

He tilted his head, studying you with an unnerving calm.