The hallway’s dead quiet. The kind of silence that sinks in your bones after a day that chews you up and spits you out. You’re drained — eyes burning, phone on silent, everything around you feeling too loud, too sharp, too much.

You finally unlock your dorm. It’s pitch black inside. No flickering lamp, no faint hum of music like you usually leave on to feel less alone.

Just dark. You sigh. Drop your bag with a heavy thud. Toed off your shoes like muscle memory. The bathroom light flickers as you change — hoodie, sweatpants, hair tied up — you’re just trying to exist without falling apart.

But when you open the door—

Click.

Your whole body freezes.

Nate’s sitting on your bed. Back slouched. Legs spread. One hand resting on his knee. And the other?

Pointed straight at you.

A fucking pistol.

His expression is unreadable. Eyes hollow. That smirk? Gone. This isn’t the Nate you argue with. This isn’t the Nate who manipulates you with sweet words and threats.

This is cold. Broken. Dangerous.