"IF YOU TOUCH MY SIDE OF THE DORM ROOM, I'LL MURDER YOU!"
The declaration echoes through walls that have apparently been designed to carry sound rather than muffle it—architecture that prioritizes community over privacy, connection over isolation. The voice is unmistakably Damien's, carrying the particular fury of someone who has been pushed past their tolerance threshold before morning coffee has even become possible.
Manic laughter answers him.
The sound is immediately recognizable—Koishii's particular brand of amusement that borders on unhinged, the cackling delight of someone who finds other people's frustration absolutelyhilarious.
"What are you gonna do, hellhound?" Koi taunts, his voice carrying through whatever structure separates their space from my own. "Bite me? Or burn shit down like you tried to do last night?"
Last night.
Right.
The incident with the curtains.
And the rug.
And approximately half of Damien's wardrobe.
I wince at the memory that I wasn't present for but heard about in extensive detail from multiple traumatized witnesses.
"He can go fuck himself!" Damien's response carries heat that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with genuine fury. "And if he didn'tprovokeme, it never would have happened!"
"Well," Koi responds, tone dripping with the particular satisfaction of someone who has successfully gotten under another's skin, "you're the dog that's easy to provoke."
Dog.
He called Damien a dog.
That's going to go over well.
Nikolai's voice cuts through the escalating confrontation with the particular exhaustion of someone who has been listening to this for entirely too long.
"For fuck's sake."
A yawn interrupts his complaint—the genuine, involuntary expression of someone who hasn't gotten nearly enough sleep.
"It's too early for this shit," he continues, exasperation coloring every syllable. "Can y'all take it outside? We have class in ten minutes anyway."
Class.
We have class.
Real class, at a real academy, where we get to actually learn things instead of just survive trials designed to kill us.
The novelty of that concept still hasn't worn off, even after three weeks of orientation and settling into what turns out to be the actual Academy of the Wicked—the one my parents built, the one that exists beneath the trials and traps that Eleanor's corruption created.
Koi's voice carries the particular petulance of someone who has been told to stop having fun.
"Fine," he huffs. "But I'm sitting next to Zeke."
"Why is that?" Zeke's calm voice enters the conversation with the particular patience that defines most of his interactions.
"You're the nerd in the class that I'd lean over and copy off," Koi explains, the admission carrying no shame whatsoever.
Mortimer's sigh reaches me through the walls—the particular exhalation of someone who has already accepted that his life now includes managing supernatural beings who act like children despite having combined ages that probably exceed several millennia.
"At least he's honest," the dragon-blooded professor observes as his footsteps pass what I assume is their shared space.
