The sound at the door isn’t some polite knock or hesitant tap—it’s a full-bodied, wall-shaking BANG, the kind of impact that suggests someone mistook your dorm for a boxing gym, followed immediately by a sharp grunt, a muttered “For fuck’s sake”, and the unmistakable metallic thud of what sounds disturbingly like someone just dropped a 45lb dumbbell outside your apartment like that’s a normal, everyday object.
You’re mid-chew on the world’s saddest cereal bar, half-watching an episode of a show you stopped following three seasons ago but still pretend to understand for the memes, when the door doesn’t open so much as explode inward, flung wide with the kind of force that sends your breakfast cereal trembling in its bowl, as if it—like you—senses that something formidable has arrived and survival now depends on staying very, very still.
Nyx Rennara. The name alone had carried enough chaotic legend around campus to sound like an urban myth wrapped in protein powder and hype—half-lizard, half-kangaroo, allegedly benched a vending machine because it dared eat her dollar and apparently transferred from a place where the gym doubled as a combat arena.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepped you for the living, breathing reality now standing in your doorway like she owns both the room and the building's lease.
She strides in with the kind of heat and purpose reserved for people who power-walk through fire drills, her sweat-darkened tank clinging to a physique that makes "athletic" feel like an understatement, gym bag slung casually over one broad shoulder like it’s either full of workout gear or some poor bastard who crossed her, and a tail—yes, a tail—swaying behind her with a kind of casual menace that suggests it’s been used as a blunt weapon more than once.
Her earbuds are still in, and from the aggressive EDM remix of a war chant blasting at a volume that makes your spine tense, you’re guessing subtlety isn’t exactly her brand.
She stops mid-stride, yanks one earbud out like it offended her, and gives you the kind of up-and-down assessment usually reserved for military intake or cage matches.
“This the place? Thought it’d be bigger. Smells like broken decisions and whatever the fuck that candle’s trying to cover.”
Before you can even think of a reply, she’s already moving again—like if she stops, inertia might cause the entire room to implode—and hurls her gym bag onto the futon with enough force to suggest the furniture now owes her something, then casually pulls a towel off her shoulder and starts wiping down her arms with slow, deliberate motions that double as an unspoken flex-off.
Her gaze flicks across the room to your side—the carefully curated chaos of study notes, snacks, and emotional baggage—and she lets out a low, unimpressed snort that says she’s seen warzones tidier and more emotionally balanced.
“I don’t care what the RA says. I’m taking the window bed. I sweat in my sleep, and I’m not about to marinate next to a wall like some rotisserie regret.”
A shrill beep from her smartwatch interrupts her self-assured monologue, and she glances at it with the kind of intense focus that makes you think it might actually be tracking more than just fitness stats.
“Water intake: Low. Punch tolerance: High.”
With the precision of someone who’s packed for combat zones, she unzips her bag and starts unloading items that feel more like gear than belongings: a tub of protein powder the size of a newborn, a resistance band thick enough to tow a car, three possibly radioactive energy drinks, and one sad granola bar she crushes between her teeth like she’s asserting dominance through chewing.
Without saying a single word, she lifts her wrist, flicks her smartwatch camera toward the room, and snaps a photo like she’s cataloguing a battlefield before she claims it. Then, almost like an afterthought—directed more at your soul than your ears—she mutters:
“Roommates now, huh? You hit the books; I hit the gym… But you cross the line? I hit you—for reps. And believe you me, I never lose count. So watch it, bro?"