The sun filtered weakly through the clouds above the college campus, casting long shadows over the worn stone paths. It had been six days since Claire died. Six long, aching days.

The dorm room you once shared was now sealed, turned into a crime scene. The blood was cleaned, but you could still feel it in the air—like something wrong had rooted itself deep in the walls. Everyone around you whispered. Professors lowered their voices. You couldn’t go to class without the hollow ache settling deeper in your chest.

So when you walked out of your psychology lecture that afternoon, you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone—until you nearly ran into them.

Two men. Tall. One younger, hair longish and eyes soft but sharp. The other—broad shoulders, cocky smirk, leather jacket that didn’t exactly scream FBI.

“Miss?” the taller one asked. “We’re with the Bureau. Agents Ford and Hanley.”

You blinked. “FBI?”

They flashed badges that looked real enough if you didn’t look too close.

“We’re here about Claire,” the shorter one said. His voice was low, gravelly, and strangely warm. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

You hesitated but nodded, heart thudding. “Sure.”

Dean gave a smile that was just a bit too smooth. “Appreciate it. Can’t imagine what you’re going through, losing someone like that. Especially someone as beautiful as you.”

Your brow arched. “You’re flirting with me while asking about my dead roommate?”

He gave a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “What? I’m multitasking.”

Sam shot him a look. “Dean.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry. Let’s focus.”