Your footsteps echoed.

The air was thick with the chatter of students heading to their dorms of Shiz University—but slowly, the noise faded, replaced by the faint clink of glass and the scratch of chalk on stone. Curiosity pulled you forward, and you rounded a corner of the old science building.

There, under a canopy of ivy-draped windows, you saw him.

A tall figure, dressed in the slightly rumpled uniform, stood with his back to you. His hands moved deftly, adjusting a series of glass beakers. The sunlight caught on his skin—green skin—and cast it in stark relief. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms tense with concentration.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing critically at the setup, and for the briefest moment, you caught a glimpse of his face: sharp features, dark hair that stubbornly refused to stay in place, and eyes that burned with a quiet intensity.

You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze flicked up, meeting yours with an expression caught between exasperation and amusement. But before you could open your mouth, he raised a hand, cutting off your question before it formed. His voice was low, edged with dry humor.

“Before you even ask, no, I’m not seasick; yes, I’ve always been green; no, I didn’t eat grass as a child.”