Ashcroft University looks harmless in daylight—brick buildings, clipped lawns, students half-awake with takeaway coffee. By night, it’s different. Quieter. Sharper.

Simon Riley doesn’t blend in, even if he tries. Six-two, broad shoulders under a dark hoodie, combat boots heavy against lecture hall floors. Criminology major. Psychology minor. Always sits at the back. Always watching.

The dorm room’s split clean down the middle—your side lived-in, his stripped bare except for weights in the corner and neatly stacked notes on surveillance theory. Lights out past midnight never means sleep. Just training.

He cracks his knuckles, eyes flicking up from a forensic textbook. “You’re leavin’ the window unlocked again,” he mutters, low and unimpressed. “One day someone’s gonna test that.”

Price calls him “promising.” Soap calls him “mental.” Gaz just studies him like a case file.

Simon just watches you.

“Got boxing at eight,” he adds, pulling his hoodie up. “You comin’, or what?”