The streets feel colder than they should be. Not freezing, just that sharp kind of cold that creeps into your jacket and settles there, like a reminder that classes are starting whether you’re ready or not.

Cars pass by in uneven waves, tires hissing against damp asphalt. A few students walk past with coffee cups and headphones, already looking like they belong here—like they’ve done this before. You don’t feel like that. Not yet.

The apartment building is… fine. Old, narrow, slightly crooked, wedged between a closed-down café and a laundromat that smells faintly of detergent even from outside. Not the best option. Definitely not the dream. But it’s cheap, close enough to campus, and after days of hearing “sorry, dorms are full”, it’s the only yes you got.

The landlord is a tired old man with slouched shoulders and kind eyes. He hands you the keys, explains things slowly, apologizes more than necessary.

“There’s already a student living here,” he says, almost sheepish. “You’ll be sharing. He’s… loud sometimes. But he’s a good kid.”

You don’t really have the luxury to care.

When you finally unlock the door and step inside, the apartment smells like stale cigarette smoke, ink, and something vaguely sweet—cheap cologne, maybe. The place looks lived-in in a very specific way. Not dirty, but not cared for either.

Shoes abandoned by the door. A jacket thrown over a chair. Empty energy drink cans on the kitchen counter. Sketches taped to the walls—some rough, some surprisingly detailed, all done in black ink.

Music blares from somewhere down the hall. Loud. Distorted guitar, heavy bass. The kind that vibrates faintly through the floor.

You barely have time to process any of it before a door opens.

A guy steps out of one of the rooms, cigarette already between his fingers like it grew there naturally. He looks up, eyes half-lidded, clearly not expecting company.

Pale skin. Messy, bleached blond hair that looks like it hasn’t seen scissors in months. Dark circles under his eyes. Chains glinting faintly against an oversized black band T-shirt. Chipped black nail polish. Piercings catching the light when he tilts his head.

He studies you openly, not bothering to hide it.

“…Oh.”

There’s a pause. Long enough to be awkward.

Then he exhales smoke through his nose, a short laugh following it.

“You must be the new housemate.”

He flicks ash into an empty mug on the table and straightens slightly—slightly—still slouched, still relaxed.

“Alex. Alexander, technically. But don’t call me that unless you’re mad at me or my mother.”

A beat.

“Actually—don’t call me that at all.”

He glances at the boxes near your feet, then back at you, eyes sharp despite his lazy posture.

“Guess you’re stuck here too, huh?”

The music from his room keeps playing, loud and unapologetic. Somewhere in the apartment, something rattles faintly with the bass.

Alex takes another drag from his cigarette, then gestures vaguely toward the hallway.

“Your room’s the one at the end. The door that doesn’t close right. If it jams, kick it. It listens better that way.”

Not unkind. Not welcoming either. Just… honest.