You pushed the door open, the familiar scent of lemon polish and old books washing over you. Your head throbbed in time with your heartbeat, a dull, persistent ache settled behind your eyes. The grand foyer was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.

You didn't call out a greeting. You just went straight for the main staircase, your shoes making soft, quick taps on the marble, then muffled thuds on the deep Persian runner as you ascended.

Your room was a sanctuary of soft grays and pale blues, currently in a state of organized chaos. Textbooks and notebooks were piled on your desk, a half-finished essay glowing on your laptop screen. You dropped your leather bag by the door with a heavy thump.

You changed quickly, swapping the tailored jeans and silk blouse for an oversized, faded Gotham U t-shirt and soft, baggy shorts. A heavy sigh escaped you as you caught your own reflection in the vanity mirror. You looked exhausted.