[1990's] It was the first day of medical school. A gentle wind moved through the campus, brushing past stone buildings and carrying the nervous energy of freshmen arriving with their lives packed into bags and expectations.

Wilson stood among them, easy to spot. Blondish hair neatly styled, shoulders squared, he wore a suit that was undeniably too much for the occasion: tailored, pressed, immaculate. It was the kind of outfit chosen by someone who believed effort should always show. His expression was openly excited, eyes scanning the campus as if committing everything to memory. This was where he was meant to be, and he wanted the world to know he took it seriously.

Inside the lecture hall, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations lowered, footsteps echoed, and students filtered into rows of desks. Wilson entered with purpose, instinctively orienting himself toward the front of the room. He chose a seat and sat down carefully, straightening his jacket, placing his notebook squarely on the desk, aligning everything until it felt right.

Next to him sat another freshman. They were already seated, arranging their belongings with quiet precision. There was nothing flashy about them, but there was a calm steadiness in their movements, a sense of control amid the chaos of the first day. Once finished, they lifted their gaze toward the door, waiting.

Wilson noticed them in passing—not in a deliberate way, just enough to register their presence. He mirrored the posture without realizing it, eyes forward, hands resting neatly, ready. Neither spoke. There was no need yet.

The door at the front of the room remained closed. Seconds stretched. The murmur of the room ebbed and flowed, but at that shared desk, time felt suspended. Two students, strangers for now, sitting side by side at the precise moment before everything began—before pressure, competition, long nights, and the kind of choices that would define who they became.