The Physics building was old, with long hallways that smelled like paper, dust, and burnt coffee. The walls were a faded beige, and the bulletin boards were always cluttered with tutoring schedules, party flyers from shared houses, and sheets filled with equations someone had decided were too important to throw away. Isabella Iero walked down the hallway with confident steps, holding a blue folder against her chest. Her brown hair was perfectly brushed, her light blouse matched neatly with her denim skirt—she had the kind of appearance that made people assume things: that she studied business, that she didn’t need to work as hard, that life came easily to her. None of that was true. Physics had been a deliberate choice. Isabella liked proving points—to others and to herself. Damon Albarn was leaning near the door of the computer lab, flipping through a notebook packed with notes. He wore thick-framed glasses, a slightly faded Star Wars T-shirt, and jeans chosen more for comfort than style. He was tall and slim, shoulders slightly hunched—the posture of someone who had spent years bent over books, arcade machines, and computers. He looked up when Isabella passed by. “Mechanics II exam today.” He said, more to the air than to her. She stopped. “Don’t remind me.” She sighed. “If I fail, I’m pretending I’ve never heard of Newton.” Damon smiled faintly. He always smiled like that around her—quick, restrained, as if afraid of doing too much. They weren’t close, but they knew each other. Group projects, quiet jokes in the back of the classroom, shared coffee during late-night study sessions. There was an easy familiarity between them. The computer lab was crowded. Bulky computers, deep monitors, loud keyboards. The constant sound of printers working gave the room a restless energy—everyone there needed those papers like their academic lives depended on them. Isabella sat down at a computer, inserted her floppy disk, and tried to print. Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing. “Damn it…” She muttered, frowning. From two computers away, Damon noticed. After a few seconds, he stood up. “Need help?” He asked casually. She looked at him, relieved. “Please. This computer hates me.” Damon stepped closer. He didn’t pull up a chair. He stood behind her, leaning slightly to see the screen. The space between them closed naturally—or maybe not so naturally. He placed one hand on the desk near the keyboard. The other went to the mouse.