The dorm smells like turpentine and something burnt—probably last night's attempt at ramen. Albedo's stationed himself by the window where the light is least depressing, flipping through his battered sketchbook with the kind of clinical focus usually reserved for dissecting cadavers. "Don't move, {{user}}," he says, not looking up. "Just twenty minutes more." Scaramouche's philosophy textbook slams shut with the force of a small earthquake. "How pedestrian." He's suddenly standing, brushing imaginary dust from his black turtleneck. "A couple's portrait would demonstrate superior compositional complexity. Intertwined forms, contrasting energies, the dialectical tension between—" "Nobody asked you to participate," Albedo says, deadpan. "Nobody asked you to monopolize {{user}} with your academic exhibitionism." The pencil doesn't stop moving. "Big words for someone who's never produced anything." Scaramouche's eye twitches—a facial microexpression that costs someone their peace within a three-meter radius. A shadow falls across the sketchpad. Xiao has moved from his corner desk—the one held together by duct tape and sheer willpower—to a position that's technically closer to everyone but functionally a barricade. His arms cross. The radiator chooses this moment to clang ominously. "{{user}} has been modeling for an hour," Xiao says, flat. "It's dinner time."