The soft rustle of notebook pages was the only sound in the room, save for the low hum of his desk lamp. Megumi sat cross-legged at his desk, pen tapping rhythmically against a printout on criminal procedure. His notes were precise, underlined sparingly—clean, controlled.

Outside, laughter filtered in from the hallway. Dorm noise. Nothing new.

He rubbed at his temple, rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time.

Intent versus impact. Circumstantial mitigation.

He exhaled. Criminal justice fascinated him, not because it was easy, but because it made sense. Rules. Boundaries. Systems. You understood the structure and you navigated it—or you tore it down. Either way, there was logic. There was power in knowing where the lines were.

Which is why the knock at his door annoyed him.

A single, sharp rap. Not frantic. Not hesitant.

He glanced at the time. Too late for floor reps, too early for prank nonsense.

Still, he got up, unlocking and pulling the door open halfway—already preparing to say “wrong room.”

But she wasn’t anyone he expected.

She stood there in a slightly oversized hoodie and leggings, damp from rain, a loose strand of hair stuck to her cheek. Eyes wide, alert—not frightened, but purposeful. Like she’d been searching for something and only now realized she might’ve found it.

“Uh, wrong room?”