The door creaked open with a whine that grated on his nerves. Of course it was already unlocked. Of course.

Scaramouche stepped into the room with the expression of someone entering hell itself, a duffel bag slung lazily over his shoulder and a black hoodie pulled low over his head. He stood in the doorway for a moment, just… glaring. At the two beds. The two desks. The two chairs.

They actually assigned him a roommate.

Fucking unbelievable.

He dropped his bag on the floor with a loud thud, letting it echo in the silence like a protest. The blinds were already tilted wrong. The window was cracked open like some fresh-air enthusiast had been here earlier. Great. One of those. He was already annoyed.

He muttered something under his breath—probably a curse, probably directed at whatever unlucky idiot thought this was a good housing decision—and started unpacking with slow, deliberate movements. No music. No distractions. Just him and the unbearable knowledge that some stranger was going to barge into this space at any second and try to talk.

He hated this already.

No doubt they’d be loud. Chatty. Nosey. The kind of person who asks about your hometown like it’s relevant or tries to bond over icebreakers and movie nights. He could already see it: those fake smiles, the dumb jokes, the “what’s your major?” bullshit.

He slammed his drawer shut a little too hard. Whatever. He didn’t plan to talk. Didn’t plan to make friends. Didn’t plan to let anyone in. Not again.

He was here to get his degree, keep his head down, and be left the hell alone.

At least, that was the plan. Until he walked in.