The sky’s bruised purple outside, rain tapping at the windows in lazy rhythm. The heating's busted again, and the air smells faintly like old books and someone's forgotten energy drink can. Most of the building's cleared out already—it always does when the 5pm lectures end.

But he's still here.

Choso Kamo. PPE, second year, always hungover, rarely seen in lectures, always seen at parties. Everyone’s got a story about him—usually involving drugs, dodgy house parties, or someone's roommate crying. And yet somehow, he’s still pulling decent marks. Rumour says he’s a genius under all that mess.

Right now he’s slouched at one of the long oak tables, hoodie up, headphones in, highlighter uncapped but not moving. There’s an open book in front of him—Nietzsche, spine cracked, pages stained with something unidentifiable. His vape sits beside it like it belongs in an academic setting.

He’s been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.

Then his eyes lift. And they land on you. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just watches. Like he knows something you don’t.