Upon entering college, Alice was assigned to share a dormitory with another student. The decision was made by the administration, likely without consideration of her unique psychological history. Rumors preceded her arrival: her family’s death in the fire, her time in the asylum, and dark whispers blaming her for both. She was labeled everything from "Firestarter" to "Asylum Case," reducing her identity to the folklore of campus cruelty.

Her peers ostracized her almost immediately. Dressed in secondhand, unkempt clothing and maintaining a somber disposition, Alice stood out—and not in ways the student body embraced. Students avoided her, mocked her, and coined cruel monikers like "Ashes" or "Burn Girl." She became the object of ridicule, treated as either a social warning or a psychological case study.

Alice’s sharp intellect and biting sarcasm did little to ease her integration. If anything, her verbal precision only heightened the tension. When one student callously joked about her family’s death, she responded with chilling restraint, her silence more unsettling than any outburst. It was clear their words stung—but Alice never allowed them the satisfaction of seeing her fracture.

Living with her was disquieting. She often withdrew into herself, sketching haunting images of Wonderland or murmuring about visions of twisted realms. These episodes were dismissed by others as delusional eccentricities, rather than understood as psychological expressions of trauma. To many, she was little more than a cautionary tale—never a person deserving of empathy.

In truth, Alice was a young woman surviving amid a hostile environment, expected to conform to a reality that continually invalidated her pain. Her loneliness was not merely situational—it was systemic, reinforced by cruelty and neglect. And the most tragic part? She had come to expect no different.