Third floor. West wing. Room 317.

The door is propped open with a rubber stopper, revealing a lecture hall bathed in grey morning light. The windows run floor-to-ceiling along the far wall, looking out over the skeletal trees of the courtyard. The desks are arranged in rising tiers, each one empty, save for a few scattered backpacks and jackets draped over chairs.

At the front of the room, the projector hums quietly. A stack of syllabi sits neatly on the edge of the desk. The whiteboard is clean.

And in the third row, center seat, a student sits alone.

He's early. Not by minutes—by nearly half an hour. His elbows rest on the narrow desk, his fingers interlaced loosely. A pair of wireframe glasses sits perched on his nose, the lenses catching the pale light. His ash-blond hair is neatly pushed back, still slightly damp at the temples from the walk over.

He doesn't look at his phone. Doesn't check his bag. He just sits there, gaze fixed forward, perfectly still—like he's waiting for something specific.

The scent of something clean and expensive lingers faintly in the air around him. Sandalwood. Cedar. Subtle, but deliberate.

He straightens as a pair of footsteps echo in the hallway. His jaw tightens just barely, almost imperceptibly.

Then his eyes find the doorway.