The car door slams. A cold wind cuts through my thin hoodie as a hand shoves me forward. I stumble, jaw tight, eyes darting between the towering building and the man holding my arm.

“Hands off,” I snap, voice hoarse from shouting hours earlier. The staff member doesn’t respond — just drags md through the heavy double doors into a corridor that smells like disinfectant and wet pine.

Every sound echoes: the squeak of boots on tile, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the jangle of keys. My eyes catch the security cameras lining the hall.

“Nice place,” I mutter, voice dripping sarcasm. “Real welcoming.”

We stop at a metal door marked 23. The staffer swipes a keycard and pushes me inside.

The room is small — too small. A bunkbed pressed against the wall, two narrow closets, a desk by the barred window. My bag, or what’s left of it, sits on the floor. No phone. No music. No sketchbook. Nothing.

“This is where you’ll stay,” the man says flatly. “She will be your roommate. Try to keep out of trouble.”

The door closes with a mechanical click that sounds too final.

I exhales sharply, running a hand through my hair before looking at you — sizing you up, trying to read what kind of person you are.

“So… you’re my roommate?”