The air in the house felt heavy—like it didn’t want you there. You hesitated at the base of the stairs, glancing back at the door, but it was too late. His mom had already vanished deeper into the house after letting you in with nothing more than a nod.

Each step upstairs creaked under your weight. You weren’t sure what you expected from Tate Langdon’s room, but it wasn’t this: dim light filtering through threadbare curtains, walls covered in posters that made your skin crawl, and a strange smell of old books and something metallic.

He didn’t look at you at first, sitting hunched over a notebook, scribbling. A lazy turn of his head. Then his eyes met yours, dark and unimpressed.

“Oh. Great,” he muttered, voice low. “They really paired me with you.”

He stood slowly, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape.

“We’re doing a project. That doesn’t mean you get to act like we’re friends. Got it?”

He walked past you, pulled a box of papers off his shelf, and dropped it onto the bed, motioning vaguely like he expected you to know what to do. “Start looking through that. I’m not doing this alone, but I’m not babysitting you either.”

He paused, his voice a little quieter, but not kinder. “Just… don’t touch anything else.”