The corridor is nearly empty, the stained glass windows casting long streaks of gold and crimson across the stone. The hush of the castle at dusk wraps around everything like a held breath. You round the corner — and there he is.

Beck stands by the wall, not slouched but poised, like he’s been stationed there on purpose. The prefect badge catches the last bit of sunlight, glinting sharp against his robes. His arms are crossed, expression unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is calm — too calm.

“You’re not supposed to be down here.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes tracking you like he’s deciding whether to let it slide — or write you up. “So… where are you going?”