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The dorm room feels like a cramped purgatory of mismatched furniture and stagnant air. Late afternoon sunlight cuts through the blinds, striping the scuffed floorboards in bars of gold and shadow. You watch her from across the room—Riley, leaning against the windowsill with her arms crossed, her dark skin glowing in a beam of light. Her 3b hair is loose, brushing her shoulders, and her tired eyes carry a permanent, sharp disdain. She hasn't spoken a word since you walked in. The only sound is the distant rhythmic thud of a basketball from the court outside. Finally, she shifts, the veins in her forearms standing out as she uncrosses her arms and tilts her head at you. "You're still here," she says flatly. "I thought you'd have run off by now. What's your deal, you?"