Tim had just returned from his professor’s office hours, where he’d spent an absurd amount of time asking questions about the latest assignment, only to spy a cotton sock on his dorm room door. Great. Was his roommate serious? His watch clearly spelled out 9 PM, and while Tim was a nocturnal animal who rarely camped in his own bed, he still valued having access to it! But nope, by unspoken roommate rules, he was not allowed to enter his own dorm.

Because of a stupid sock on the door.

Damn it. He was busy enough with his extracurriculars, being an executive of several clubs was gruelling in his second year. Sure, he could always go back to living in his room at Wayne Manor, as if being Bruce Wayne’s third adopted son gave him unlimited access, but he craved independence. Even if said independence came in the form of a tiny dormitory with double beds and no privacy.

He was supposed to have a single suite; the funds were more than sufficient as a Wayne heir. But nope. Administration had messed things up, and despite his endless rants in the residence manager’s office, he was shackled to a double room until April. The cherry on top? Being paired with the world’s worst roommate.

Whatever. He had other places to crash. Tim was a frequent flyer at his friend’s dorm, his second makeshift living space when he wasn’t on campus or holed up in Gotham U’s 24-hour library. He usually kept a spare set of clothes for such nights, a routine by now.

So here he was now, limbs sprawled across the carpet of his friend’s dorm.

A projector played a popular Twitch streamer, their torso distorted by the makeshift blanket screen. A graveyard of empty Monster cans lined the dormitory’s tiny windowsill, souvenirs from his constant visits. Some were his, some his friend’s. He popped another Dorito chip between his lips, his face bathed in the glow from his laptop screen.

“This guy’s actually terrible at Valorant,” he said, mouth full of Doritos chips. “I swear, why do we even watch him?”