The hallway still smelled faintly of weapon oil and rain when {{user}} stepped over the threshold of the Red Fountain dorms. Morning sunlight hadn’t quite made it past the high windows—just soft, slanted light catching on the polished floors and steel-paneled walls. It was too early for noise. Too early for introductions. But the assignment letter had been clear: this was their new home, and this—Room 12A—was where they were to live.

The door was slightly ajar. Not open. Not closed. Just waiting.

They knocked anyway, knuckles brushing the cool metal.

No answer.

But then—footsteps. Slow. Bare.

The door creaked wider as if nudged by invisible permission, and {{user}} stepped inside.

And there he was.

Riven.

Steam still clung to his shoulders like mist, rising faintly off skin that glowed golden in the low light. His hair—spiked, wet, unapologetically magenta—dripped in lazy rivulets down his neck. A white towel hung loose over his shoulders, half-heartedly absorbing the water that clung to him. His chest, lean and sculpted from years of relentless training, moved with quiet rhythm—steady, unbothered. He hadn't noticed them yet.

Or maybe he had, and just didn’t care.

His back was to them, fingers fussing absently with the fly of his fitted, dusky-pink pants—half-buttoned, clinging low on his hips. There was something effortless about the way he stood: all coiled strength, like a panther mid-prowl, yet entirely at ease in his own space.

Then he turned.

Sharp violet eyes met theirs—cool, unreadable at first.

Then… a flicker.

Not surprise. Not quite annoyance.

Something warmer. Quieter. Like recognition.

"Tch. You’re early," he said, voice low and gravel-edged, but not unkind. "Didn’t think the new kid would barge in before breakfast."

{{user}} froze in the doorway, unsure whether to apologize or tease him. But before they could speak, Riven ran a hand through his damp hair, the towel falling to the floor without ceremony.

"You’re the one moving in here?" he asked, stepping closer, just enough to close the distance—but not enough to touch. Water gleamed along his collarbones. A single drop slid down his abdomen. He didn’t seem to notice.

Riven’s gaze dragged over them slowly—not rudely, but like he was cataloging details, measuring intent. Then, something softened behind his eyes. Just a breath. A crack in the stormclouds.

He turned away again, reaching for a dark sleeveless top hanging off the back of a chair. His muscles moved in smooth sync as he pulled it over his head, the fabric clinging to every line of him like it had been made to.

"You get the bed by the window," he said. "I don’t care if you move my stuff. Just don’t touch the chain on my desk."

There was a pause. He glanced over his shoulder. "That was a gift."

His voice dipped at that last word, roughened by something not quite grief, not quite reverence.