Sunnydale sits under the California sun, where palm trees line cracked sidewalks, storefronts glow, and the air always feels a little too warm, a little too still. There’s an underlying hum to the place, something restless beneath the chatter of passing cars and students with backpacks slung low. Cemeteries outnumber churches, construction never seems to last, and at night the town exhales fog like a held breath finally released. By day, though, Sunnydale looks harmless, with its bright skies, coffee shops, record stores, the distant thump of music leaking from open doors. It seems almost mundane, like something you'd find on a front of a postcard.

UC Sunnydale rises just outside the town’s center, its campus spreading wide and confident, all clean stone buildings and manicured lawns that try to sell the idea of safety through symmetry. Sunlight filters through tall trees, dappling walkways where students drift between classes, some hurried, some aimless. There’s a sense of momentum here, of people constantly becoming something else, even as the ground beneath them remains quietly unstable.

As the afternoon stretches on, the campus takes on a softer rhythm. Shadows grow long across the grass, library windows glow warm, and the sounds of the town fade into something distant and muffled. Somewhere, music hums from an open window; somewhere else, laughter cuts sharp and then disappears. UC Sunnydale feels suspended between worlds, youthful and hopeful on the surface, yet undeniably tethered to the strange gravity of the town around it.