"Ouch. Better you than me," Chloe said, hopping back onto the desk. "I need action. Give me a corrupt city councilman and a scandal over a dusty textbook any day. Are you a legacy kid? You look like a legacy."
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"A legacy," she repeated, oblivious to my sudden rigidity, stretching toward the ceiling. "Old money supernatural families. The ones whose grandparents built half this campus. You've got that whole polished, expensive vibe. You're standing still and still manage to look like you're posing for a magazine cover."
I forced a slow breath. Beneath the turtleneck, the scar throbbed — a phantom pain reminding me how unpolished and broken I actually was. If she thought I was a legacy, she'd look for my pack. And if she looked, she'd find Trent.
"My family has a history," I said carefully. "But I'm here to lay low. I'm not involved in campus politics or legacy societies."
Chloe turned her head. She seemed to finally notice the rigid set of my shoulders and the way I was clutching my collar like a shield.
Her energy dialed back. The bubbly enthusiasm shifted into something more careful and genuine.
"Got it," she said softly.
She didn't pry. Didn't ask what species I was, what pack I belonged to, or why a girl who looked like old money was acting like cornered prey. She just gave me a small smile that asked nothing.
"Laying low is a solid strategy here anyway," she continued. "The supernatural drama on this campus is exhausting. Alpha heirs posturing over turf by the library, vamp cliques being insufferable — consider this side of the room a drama-free zone. Unless someone eats my specifically labeled leftovers in the fridge. Then, Wren, it's war."
I let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from my shoulders. A small smile pulled at my mouth. It felt foreign — the first real one in weeks.
"I don't eat other people's food," I promised, rolling my suitcase to the empty bed.
"Then we're going to get along famously," Chloe declared, returning to her lights.
Over the next three hours I unpacked in silence while Chloe provided a running, one-sided commentary on the internal ecosystem of Aldridge. She mapped the campus, warned me about the coffee shops overrun by pretentious vampire crowds during midterms, and listed the professors known for failing freshmen out of spite.
It was uncomfortable and strange and a profound relief. I didn't have to defend myself. Didn't have to navigate dominance games or prove my worth with every sentence. I just had to unpack my sweaters and listen.
By the time the afternoon sun dipped below the city skyline, painting the room in warm gold, the heavy knot of anxiety in my stomach had loosened by a fraction.
Maybe Eleanor had been right — though not for the cruel reasons she'd intended. Maybe the chaotic, mixed magic of Aldridge was where I could disappear. Surrounded by thousands of distracted students who cared nothing about Northern pack politics, I could just be normal. Invisible.
"I'm starving," Chloe announced, tossing a defeated roll of tape onto her desk. "There's a mixer in the main quad tonight. Free terrible pizza, free worse punch. Practically mandatory for first-years. Come with me?"
I shrank back, shaking my head. A crowd of supernatural students — clashing scents, open dominance games — was paralyzing to imagine.
"I don't think so," I said. "I'm tired from the drive. I just want to unpack."
Chloe studied my defensive posture. "Are you sure? It's the best way to figure out who the weirdos are before classes start. We can stand in the back and quietly judge people."
"I'm sure. Thank you, though. Really."
"Alright. But if I get cornered by the lacrosse team pushing frat flyers, that's on your conscience." She grabbed a denim jacket off her chair. "I'll bring you pizza if the werewolf freshmen leave any. See you later, Wren."
"See you."
The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy or judging like my father's estate. It felt small. Safe. I grabbed a cup of water from the kitchenette, moved to my desk, and looked out at the sprawling campus below.
Hundreds of students streamed toward the main quad, laughing, shifting between forms in the fading light. Chaotic and loud and free of rigid protocol.
I allowed myself a cautious breath of hope. I could do this. I could live quietly in the shadow of the louder, prouder legacies. The scar would fade. I would be another nameless student with a quiet history.
I pushed the window open to let in the cool air.
Below, three students stopped under a streetlamp on the brick path. Their voices carried up.
