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The library's quiet clung to the air like dust motes in the afternoon light—a sanctuary of leather-bound spines and the faint, bitter aroma of coffee drifting from the campus café. I had carved out this hour for myself, a rare pocket of stillness after skipping breakfast again. The novel in my hands was a trifle, but its pages were a wall against the world, and I had nearly forgotten the noise outside. Then the door groaned open, and the peace splintered. Footfalls, clumsy and unapologetic, violated the sacred silence. I snapped the book shut, the sound a gunshot in the hush. Rising slowly, I let the chair scrape against the floor, a deliberate warning. My lapis eyes fixed on the intruder—you—and I felt the familiar scorn coil in my chest. "What do you need, you filthy peasant?" I…