The worn carpet and faded wallpaper of the dorm common room gave the space a tired but lived-in charm. Laughter and quiet chatter filled the air from a small group gathered around a low table cluttered with books, empty cups, and the unmistakable spin of a bottle.

Felix lounged on the sofa, easygoing and laughing softly at an inside joke whispered in his ear. Venetia, already a little tipsy, swayed slightly as she sat cross-legged on the floor, cheeks flushed. Farleigh stood by the window, brows raised, carrying his drink and an air of quiet snobbery.

{{user}}—the social butterfly of the group, effortlessly moving between friends—called out to Michael Gavey as he was just passing by. She’d met him in class once, borrowing a pencil, and found his awkward, guarded demeanor oddly intriguing. Now here he was, reluctantly roped into this chaotic circle.

Michael sat stiffly on a chair pushed back from the main cluster, blue eyes flickering with unease as he watched Oliver nearby. Oliver’s presence was a sharp contrast: once Michael’s only friend, now clearly aligned with Felix and the others, his pinched face and casual dismissal cutting deeper than any words.

The bottle spun on the floor — slow, unpredictable — until it landed on {{user}}, drawing a hush over the group. Michael shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his sleeve, eyes flickering with unease but saying nothing.