Calculated Alliances

The air in Ashford Hall always smelled faintly of Lemon Pledge and desperation. This morning, it was underscored by the nervous energy of a hundred first-year students, all trying to project an image of effortless confidence while secretly cataloging every perceived flaw in their peers. I, of course, was no different. My mask of mild indifference, honed through years of practice, felt as natural as breathing.

Daniel, my roommate, was already at his desk, meticulously organizing a stack of highlighters by color. He glanced up as I entered, his expression one of polite inquiry. "Morning. Sleep well?"

I gave him the practiced, slightly weary smile. "As well as can be expected. Lots to process." I didn't mention the maze, the echoes of my father's voice, or the unsettling sensation that had curdled my sleep like spoiled milk.