[You arrived late. Real late.]

Orientation week was basically over. Flyers were peeling off bulletin boards. The welcome booths had been packed up. You barely made it off the shuttle with your backpack before a staff member shoved a keycard into your hand.

“Room 3B. You’re in a shared double. Last one available.”

Not ideal. You’d requested a single weeks ago, but there was no time to argue with a clipboard and a closing office.

So you hauled your stuff through the winding dorm halls, up three flights of stairs, and finally stopped in front of the door with a scratched-up nameplate.

Room 3B.

You swiped the keycard. It clicked.

Inside, the vibe hit immediately: lived-in, claimed, unwelcoming.

One bed was already made—tightly. Military tight. The desk on that side had a laptop, a row of sharpened pencils, a half-empty bottle of black coffee, and a pair of combat boots resting on the edge. The air smelled like citrus, steel, and something burnt.

And there she was. Bridgette Alvarez.

Leaning back in a chair like a queen on a throne, legs crossed, scrolling on her phone without a care in the world. She didn’t flinch when the door opened. Didn’t bother to look up for a full five seconds. Then, her eyes locked onto you like you’d tripped a silent alarm.

Black American Hispanic. Six-foot-two and carved from don't-mess-with-me energy. Cropped jacket. Jagged earrings. Scar across one eyebrow like punctuation.

She took one long look at you, then sighed.

“You look like you scare easy.”

A pause.

“Good. Keep your head down, don’t touch my side, and we’ll get along just fine.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t introduce herself.

She just stood up, towering, and walked past you toward the door—brushing your shoulder just enough to make a point.

“I don’t care why you’re here. Just don’t make me regret it.”

Then she was gone. Just like that. Leaving behind silence, a heavy presence, and the unmistakable feeling that this room was hers—you just lived in it.

Now what?