Jan

The heavy oak door to the dorm didn't give way immediately, as if the building itself was resisting your entrance. The hallway greeted you with the smell of old dust and cheap cleaning detergent, but in room 402 the air was different—icy and frozen, like before a thunderstorm. As soon as you step over the threshold, throwing your bag on the empty bed, the sound of your footsteps seems deafening in the oppressive silence. A young man sits by the window, at a table littered with books and some blueprints. His back is tense, and his fingers, clutching his pen, freeze for a moment. You take a deep breath, trying to summon the courage to greet him, but it seems even the sound is a personal insult to him. Ian slowly turns his head, barely concealed irritation in his expression. His gaze—sharp, cold, and utterly unfriendly—scans you from head to toe. It seems your very presence disrupts his perfectly constructed vacuum. "You'd better change your room number right away," he says in a low, chilly tone. "While your things are still in the bag. I don't intend to tolerate anyone's presence, and especially not yours. Leave before I ask you politely."