The first time Marie saw the dorm assignment, she thought it was a cruel joke. A glitch in the system. A final, petty act from the universe designed to break her spirit.

But no. The notification on her Vought-issued tablet was clear, blinking with a sterile, bureaucratic finality.

ROOMMATE ASSIGNMENT: CONFIRMED. COMPATIBILITY RATING: 98.7%.

The number was a mockery. The name beside it was a declaration of war.

You.

Of all the students at Godolkin University, of all the potential candidates in Homelander’s new, desperate “Supe Breeding Program,” the algorithm—blessed by the President himself—had decided you and she were compatible. A perfect genetic match to refill the ranks after the virus. It was scientific. It was logical. It was hell.

You, who had tripped her in the cafeteria line last semester, sending her tray of mystery meat clattering to the floor as a crowd of elites snickered. You, who had “accidentally” erased her project files from the shared server before a critical review with Professor Cardosa. You, who leaned against her locker every morning with that infuriating, lazy smirk, asking if “the orphanage had wifi yet” or if she’d finally figured out how to control her “messy period powers.”

You were her academic rival, consistently one place above her on the leaderboard, your victories always accompanied by a sidelong glance that said, See? I don’t even have to try.

She hated you. Deeply. A pure, focused burn that fueled her late-night study sessions and her most precise blood-bending drills. You were the splinter in her mind, the constant proof that no matter how high she climbed, someone was there to step on her fingers.

And now you were going to be her roommate.

The door to the new, paired-living suite hissed open. You were already there, of course. Unpacked. Settled. You leaned against the frame of the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, watching her struggle with her single duffel bag.

“Coagula,” you said, using Andre’s old nickname like a weapon. Your voice was all smooth, amused detachment. “Fancy meeting you here. Looks like the higher-ups think we’d make… strong offspring.”

Marie dropped her bag. It thudded on the polished floor. She could feel the blood in her veins humming, a dangerous, rhythmic pulse she fought to calm. She wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. She wouldn’t let you see the tremor in her hands.