Your back is screaming.

The tape peels slow, tugging against your sweat-slick skin, leaving raw streaks that tell you maaaybe you shouldn’t have left it on this long. You’ve got one earbud in. The other dangles against your collarbone as you sit hunched over, slowly peeling the binding tape from your chest. The fan whirs overhead, doing jack shit to cool you down.

The room is a mess. One desk stacked high with energy drink cans and protein bars. The other, yours, neat, save for a single cracked photo frame and a bottle of Advil you keep forgetting to throw away.

BANG

“SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER—”

You didn’t even get a full second to register the shout before a pillowcase—or maybe a grocery bag, who even knows—slammed down over your head.

A bag yanked over your head, rough canvas reeking of sweat and Axe body spray. You barely got out a strangled curse before someone—you knew that giggle—Chase, your idiot roommate—grabbed you by the arms and started dragging you across the shitty linoleum floor.

“Guess whooo’s getting hazed tonight, baby!” he crowed, already half-laughing, half-wheezing as he wrestled you toward the door.