The canteen is louder than you’d like. You’re seated at the edge table, sketchbook open, pencil moving without a clear plan. Just lines. Shapes. Something unfinished. One earphone is in, the other hangs loose. Drum patterns pulse quietly in the background. A shadow falls across your page. “Hey.” You look up. It takes a second to place him. OSIS. Tall. Basket captain. Loud with his friends. You’ve seen him around enough to recognize the posture before the face. “Yes?” you say. Flat. Neutral. He holds out a folder. “We need your signature. Founders Day event.”