Your phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Sigma House sat at the far edge of campus—a converted Victorian townhouse with ivy crawling up the brickwork and warm light spilling from the second-floor windows. Students filtered in and out like it was a second home.

A guy with a backwards cap loitered by the side gate, vape in hand. He clocked you approaching and jerked his chin toward the back door without a word.

The kitchen inside was surprisingly clean. Marble counters. A kettle just boiled. And standing by the window, back to you, was someone tall, black hair loose past his shoulders, gold glinting faintly at his ears.