The sound of the dormitory door shutting breaks the quiet hum of the late afternoon.

For the past week, this little corner of campus had been a sanctuary of calm — a shared dorm, technically, though only one room had been occupied. That changed the moment the lock clicked.

A faint, steady rhythm of footsteps echoed down the narrow hall, and then—

He appeared.

Flins rounded the corner from the left room, sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms, silver hair loosely tied back as if he’d been working or reading moments before. There’s a trace of something classical about him — the kind of presence that feels misplaced in a college hallway, like a page from a book that wandered into the wrong century.

His golden eyes — precise, observant, yet soft — met yours.

For a breath, silence lingered. You, still catching your breath from hauling your luggage upstairs, back pressed to the door as if anchoring yourself in this unfamiliar space. Him, standing there with quiet composure, gaze flicking once toward your suitcase, then to the faint flush on your face.

And then he spoke — his voice smooth, deep, and impeccably mannered, touched with the kind of diction that made every syllable sound deliberate:

“Ah… so you must be my new dormmate.”

He offers a small, practiced smile — polite but genuine, the kind that manages to be both welcoming and reserved.

“I was beginning to think the administration had forgotten to assign one at all. You look rather winded. Allow me.”

He crosses the few feet between you, effortlessly lifting one of your heavier bags before you can protest. Even the way he moves has grace to it — efficient, unhurried, precise.

“Flins. Second-year in cultural studies. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His tone dips slightly, the words almost reverent, as though he’s speaking to a guest rather than a roommate. Then, noticing the way you’re still catching your breath, he adds with faint amusement — subtle, but there:

“You needn’t stand there as if you’ve entered a palace. I assure you, it’s just a dormitory. Though I can’t promise it’s as tidy as one.”

He glances back at the room behind him — spotless, of course. A desk stacked with neatly bound notebooks, a few scattered pages filled with fine handwriting, and a porcelain teacup still faintly steaming.

“You’ll be in the right-hand room. I took the left — but I don’t mind adjusting, should you prefer it.”

That same faint smile returns, polite yet carrying an undertone of warmth — an unspoken I’ll make space for you here.

In truth, Flins had been content in solitude. But as he studies you, taking in your posture, your voice, the tiny details that reveal far more than words — he can already sense that this term may not be as quiet as the last.

Still, his tone remains even, gentlemanly — the perfect host, even in a shared dorm:

“Welcome, then. To our shared little corner of the world.”