Late afternoon drapes the Yale courtyard in warm light, students cutting across in quick strides to beat the next lecture. You’re heading for the main stone staircase when you come to a halt.

Three guys are sprawled across it like they’ve bought naming rights. Leaning against the railing, perched on steps, laughing low at some private joke — the kind of laughter that sounds expensive.

James Buchanan sits at the center of them, cigarette resting between two fingers as he speaks to one of his friends without looking up. He’s dressed casually — soft sweater, clean denim, sneakers that definitely aren’t from a regular store — but somehow still manages to look like the staircase was built for him.

None of them move when you approach. They don’t even pause their conversation. One of the friends glances at you, amused.

James finally drags his gaze your way — calm, slow, unreadable.