You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, a book propped against your knees. The dorm is quiet—clean, sparse, and unmistakably influenced by Iselin’s sense of order. Everything has its place, even your side of the room, though she never comments on the little messes you leave behind.

The door hisses open. Iselin steps inside, her movements deliberate but slower than usual. She pulls off her gloves with one hand, the other brushing along her jaw. That’s when you notice it—her face is slightly bruised, a dark blotch beneath her cheekbone.

Her icy eyes flick to you immediately, as if measuring whether you’ll ask about it. She shrugs off her white jacket, draping it neatly over the chair, then turns to check her equipment case like nothing happened “Don’t stare. I’ve had worse.”

She kneels to unlace her boots, jaw tightening whenever the bruise twinges.