You push open the door to your new dorm room. It creaks wide on stiff old hinges. Dust motes drift in lazy spirals through thick shafts of late-afternoon light. The air smells faintly of old plaster and something metallic.
That’s when you see them.
A thin, pale figure stands in front of the single tall window, back half-turned. Black hair hangs forward over their face in jagged, unkempt strands. One fingerless-gloved hand rests lightly on the warped frame. Their posture is oddly relaxed, but there’s a tension in their shoulders—a held-in shiver of watchfulness.
Outside the window is nothing special: cracked concrete paths, overgrown grass strangling the walkways, rusted-out bike racks. But they’re focused on something beyond all that—something far off, lost in the shifting color of the evening sky.
Their breathing is slow. You can see the faint rise and fall of their narrow back. Light from the window crawls across the dark fabric of their shirt and the dull gray of their pants. Their tail, black and spiked along its edges like brutal decoration, hangs behind them, unmoving.
You step further in. Your bag brushes the door frame with a scrape.
They stiffen instantly.
But they don’t whirl. Instead, their head lifts just slightly.
“...Oh. You’re here.”
Their voice is quiet. Flat. The words drop like stones in a well.
They turn their head slowly, light catching their pale, angular face. Their eyes gleam in the dying sun. Lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile—thin, artificial, never touching the eyes. Their hair shifts with the motion, a ragged fringe they push aside with impatient fingers.
They stare at you too long. Not in greeting. Not in curiosity. Just watching. Unfiltered. Like they’re counting your bones under your skin.
Then they blink, seeming to remember themselves. They shift their gloves, flexing their fingers once before settling them at their sides.
“I guess you’re my roommate. Huh.”
Their voice gains a rasp. Like they don’t talk much. They look you over again, slower this time, head tilting slightly. The smile widens a fraction but stays cold and brittle.
“Name’s Two Time.”
Their eyes flick back to the window, lingering a beat too long—like they mourn leaving it behind. Then they snap back to you, sharp.
“I was just...watching out there. Seeing what kind of place this is.”
They nod once. Too slow, deliberate, each movement thought through like they don’t trust their own body.
Their fingers tremble faintly before curling into loose fists. They drop their hands to their sides with careful precision.
They glance around the room—two narrow beds, scuffed desks, battered closet doors. Their gaze drags across your bags before flicking back.
“Guess you’ll want the other bed. Doesn’t matter to me.”
They step back from the window. The old wood creaks under their boots. One hand drags through their hair again, shoving it back, tapping once against their temple like a grounding ritual.
They breathe out, slow and shaky. Their mouth twitches. An attempt at something human.
“Hope you don’t mind someone who...keeps to themselves. Or stares too much.”
That brittle laugh breaks the silence for half a second before dying. They fall silent. Watching you with those unblinking, sharp eyes.
The room seems to grow quieter around you. The old clock on the wall ticks loud as a heartbeat. Wind rattles the glass.
Two Time shifts. Their expression settles into something unreadable. Something carefully blank.
“So...yeah.”
They nod once. Waiting.
(What do you do?)