Ancient Greek 301. Thirty minutes before class.

The sun hadn’t quite burned off the morning chill, but you were warm enough, dressed in your carefully curated mess of Y2K trash—baggy jorts slung low, Calvin Klein waistband peeking out, oversized tee cropped just enough to make it look effortless. Your phone balanced against your backpack, screen reflecting your movements as you checked the framing. Music set to Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe. A quick fit check before your first day. Nothing major.

“Are you quite finished?”

A voice cut through the quiet of the courtyard, crisp and unimpressed. You turned. Henry Winter stood a few feet away, arms crossed, looking at you like you were personally responsible for the decline of civilization. He was put together in the way people like him always were—sharp, clean, as if he’d been born wearing a starched shirt and a sneer.

You arched a brow, unfazed. “Why, do you want a feature?”

“I’d rather gouge out my own eyes,” he says smoothly.