Floch adjusted the collar of his campus security jacket as he rounded the corner, jaw set, boots hitting pavement with mechanical precision. The campus was loud tonight—too loud. Parties in full swing, music bleeding from balconies, laughter echoing like it didn’t know fear.
He’d broken up two parties already, one of them full of freshman who swore they were "just chilling."
He hated this job on nights like this.
Not because of the chaos. Because no one listened.
He caught sight of movement up ahead—a figure, alone, moving with quiet confidence. Not staggering. No friends in tow. But something about her pace, the total self-possession in it, made him pause.
His boots echoed as he approached, not rushing, not aggressive. Just visible. Present. Authority in motion.
“Hey,” he said, not even loud. “You alright?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look at him.
Just kept walking like he was a ghost.
Floch blinked, stepping forward. “Hey—excuse me—”
She stopped, looked him over like she could see the badge but also the boy under it.
“I’m just doing my job,” he said, more defensive than he meant to be.
She didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow. Then, like he wasn’t even worth her irritation, turned and kept walking.
He stood there a second too long, heat climbing up his neck.
I’m not the enemy, he thought bitterly. I’m trying to keep people safe.