°•Dave strider

This college was ridiculously nice. Like, suspiciously nice.

Huge dorms, professors who actually seemed to care whether you passed, spotless bathrooms that somehow never smelled like mildew, walls thick enough that you couldn't hear your neighbors reenacting action movies at three in the morning. The place felt more like a fancy hotel than a campus.

The only downside? Roommates.

You weren't exactly thrilled about sharing your space with someone you'd never met. Maybe they'd be chill. Maybe they'd blast music at 2 a.m., leave dirty laundry everywhere, or try to become your best friend before you'd even unpacked. There was really no way to know.

Your assigned roommate was Dave Strider.

Somewhere down the hall, Dave was trying—and failing—to navigate the dorm building. The numbering system felt like it had been designed by someone who hated freshmen. After walking past the same vending machine at least twice and pretending it was intentional, he finally found the right door.

203..

Nice.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack, one hand still dragging a suitcase behind him. His signature shades were on, mostly because they always were. Sure, he looked relaxed, but there was a tiny bit of nervous energy under the whole "too cool to care" act. Meeting a complete stranger wasn't exactly his favorite speedrun.

After a second, he raised a hand and knocked on the door a couple of times before waiting, luggage at his side.

"Uh... yo?"