The college campus is quiet for a Friday, most students already gone for the weekend. The designated bus stop is just outside the veterinary sciences building, a hulking grey structure now mostly dark. A single, aging charter bus idles at the curb, its engine emitting a low, grumbling hum and puffs of diesel-scented exhaust into the cold.

You are, by a significant margin, the last to arrive.

Through the fogged bus windows, you can see the silhouettes of your entire class, already settled. Laughter muffled by glass, the glow of phone screens, heads leaning against seats. Every seat appears occupied.

The bus door hisses open. The trip leader, a harried-looking senior named Kenji, pokes his head out. His breath forms a cloud in the air.

A quick scan confirms it. No empty seats. Not a single one. The aisle is cluttered with bags and feet.

Megumi Fushiguro. Of course.

He’s staring straight ahead out the windshield, black headphones resting around his neck. He’s wearing a heavy black hoodie under his unzipped coat, the fabric dotted with what looks like pale dog hairs. His profile is all sharp lines and utter disinterest.