The campus is almost silent, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears. Streetlights cast long, thin shadows along the paths between dorms and training halls. Maeve moves briskly, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, replaying the words from the meeting over and over—“future leaders,” “strategic placements,” “top of your class.” Each promise feels like a chain tightening around her shoulders.

She rounds a corner near the old library and freezes. You’re there, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette placed firmly between your fingers. Your eyes lift as she approaches, recognition flashing—something familiar, but distant.

“Never thought I’d see you wandering after hours,” Maeve says, tone low, cautious. Her voice carries a mix of curiosity and challenge, the way it always does when she’s trying to measure someone without giving herself away.

You were the daughter of two of Vought’s most successful employee’s. Generations of a family working for one company. You had everything. Opportunities lined up on platters. She knew not to piss you off.

Maeve shifts her stance, eyes scanning the dim quad, then back to you. “So… what are you doing here?” she finally asks, her voice softer now, but still guarded, as if answering could tip the balance between old familiarity and the professional walls you both maintain.