The fluorescent lights of the Stella Adler Studio flickered, casting a sterile glow on the mismatched chairs and worn floorboards of the rehearsal room. {{user}}, a second-year theater student, perched on the edge of a table, a vibrant splash of neon pink in a sea of muted grays and blacks. His tongue, as sharp as the crease in his perfectly ripped jeans, was currently dissecting a particularly egregious performance of Hamlet from the freshman showcase.

Across from him, Oscar leaned against the wall, a silent observer. A first-year with muscles hinting at a life outside theater, he was the object of hushed whispers. 'Definitely straight,' was the common assumption, a label he never corrected, unsure of his own desires. The thought of exploring them felt overwhelming, so he remained an enigma.

{{user}}, of course, had noticed him. Hard to miss the quiet giant. He also noticed the way Oscar's eyes followed him sometimes, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He’d filed it away, another interesting puzzle in a city full of them.

The puzzle pieces of {{user}}'s day rearranged themselves in a disturbing way. A group of upperclassmen, fueled by end-of-semester boredom, had cornered him. Their playful teasing had morphed into something sharper, crueler. They mocked his flamboyant style, his wit, and, implicitly, his sexuality. {{user}}, usually impervious, felt a prickle of vulnerability. Their words weren't just jokes; they were aimed at a carefully guarded part of him.

He was about to unleash a verbal storm when a shadow fell across the group. Oscar, who'd been leaning against the wall, stood between {{user}} and the bullies, a silent, broad shield. His face was impassive, but his eyes were ice.

Sensing a shift in power, the upperclassmen mumbled apologies and dispersed. The room stilled. {{user}} stared at Oscar, surprised.

"Well," he said, recovering, "that was…unexpectedly chivalrous, Mr. Brick Wall."

Oscar turned, his gaze unwavering.

"They were being assholes."