The Blackthorne University shuttle disgorged Cole Mercer onto the main plaza like a nervous piece of luggage. Students streamed past him—laughing, hugging, dragging suitcases—a colorful, confident river that made Cole feel instantly monochrome and uncertain. He clutched his orientation packet, squinting at the campus map. The buildings swam before his eyes: Humanities Hall, Science Complex, Stadium West, Arts Annex.

"First time's always the most confusing! A girl with electric blue streaks in her dark hair appeared beside the "Welcome Freshmen!" banner, waving enthusiastically. She wore a lanyard that read 'ALISON - HEAD WELCOMER'  and a grin that took up half her face. "Alison," she announced, shaking Cole's hand with a firm, practiced grip. "Professional greeter, unofficial therapist, and your guide to not getting lost before lunch." She glanced at his packet. "Mercer... Cole Mercer? The Whitlock scholarship kid?"

Cole blinked. "You know about that?"

"Please. Whitlock's been bragging about you since admissions sent him your portfolio. 'Raw talent,' he said. 'Emotional depth.'" Alison winked. "High praise from a man who usually communicates in grunts and critiques. You're in Magnolia Hall. Arts ghetto. You'll love it." She pointed toward a cluster of ivy-covered buildings, then handed him a bright blue folder. "Survival guide inside. Best coffee spots, professors to avoid, which library bathrooms are least haunted by regret. Oh!" She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "And avoid the football team's 'welcome mixer' tonight. It's basically a zoo where the animals drink jungle juice and howl at the moon. We're having a much more civilized thing at Warehouse D."

Cole nodded, overwhelmed by the information dump. "Thanks, I—"

"Go! Unpack! Live your artistic truth!" Alison gave him a gentle push before turning to the next shell-shocked freshman. "YOU! Yeah, you with the excellent hair! Let's get you sorted!"

Cole stumbled forward with his duffel, clutching Alison's folder like a lifeline. He paused by a large display board covered in glossy brochures and campus event flyers. His eyes caught on one—a professional shot of the Blackthorne football team in mid-action, mud-flecked and heroic. Front and center, wearing number 17 and a look of fierce concentration, was a player with sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes. The caption read: 'ELAN CARTER - STAR QUARTERBACK LEADS BLACKTHORNE TO ANOTHER WINNING SEASON.'Cole stared at the photo. The guy looked like he'd been carved from marble and intensity. Exactly the kind of person Cole had hoped to avoid in college—all confidence and no room for people who spent their time drawing shadows and second-guessing themselves.

He was so focused on the brochure that he didn't see the whirlwind approaching from his left.

"OHMYGOD—!"

The impact was sudden and spectacular. Cole's sketchbook flew from under his arm, pages scattering like wounded birds. He hit the brick pathway with a grunt, the world tilting sideways in a kaleidoscope of blue hair, flying paper, and the scent of lavender shampoo.

A cascade of brightly colored flyers rained down around him, settling on his chest, his legs, in his hair.

Feminist Book Club - Tuesdays 7 PM

Consent is Sexy Bake Sale - Friday Quad

Decolonize Your Mind: A Workshop

"Lena, I told you to watch where you were going." A calm, dry voice cut through Cole's daze. A second girl stood over him—sleek black hair, sharp eyes behind stylish glasses, arms crossed. She looked profoundly unimpressed. "I was watching! I was watching systemic injustice!" The blue-haired girl—Lena—was already on her knees, gathering papers with frantic energy. "Look! We have 'Climate Action Now'! And 'Free Hugs (With Verbal Consent First)'! Ooh, this one's for the faculty anti-racism training, wrong audience..." Cole sat up slowly, a flyer for "Queer Zine-Making & Mutual Aid" peeling itself off his shoulder. "I'm okay," he mumbled, though his dignity was definitely fractured. Lena stopped gathering papers and looked at him properly for the first time. Her eyes—a warm brown—widened. "Oh. You're new." She leaned closer, studying his face with unsettling intensity. "You have the look."

"Wh-what look?"

"The tragic artist look." She pointed a finger at his thumb, where a permanent smudge of charcoal lived. "See? The mark of the creatively damned. Plus you're carrying a sketchbook that's seen some emotional turmoil." She grinned, a sudden, brilliant thing. "I'm Lena. Art history major. This is Naomi, my girlfriend and personal anchor to reality." She jerked a thumb at the unimpressed girl. Naomi gave a curt nod, kneeling to help gather the remaining flyers with efficient motions. "You're not concussed. Her flyers are mostly non-lethal." Before Cole could form a coherent sentence, Lena shoved a neon pink flyer into his hands. The paper practically vibrated with energy.

ANARCHY, ART & APPLE CIDER

The Anti-Establishment, Anti-Football, Pro-Glitter Mixer

Warehouse D | 8 PM | No Bros Allowed (Exceptions Pending Review)

"Come!" Lena said, her eyes sparkling. "It'll be way better than whatever meathead gathering is happening elsewhere! We'll have intellectual conversations! And cookies that may or may not be vegan! And glitter! Biodegradable glitter!"

"Lena, we're late for the housing office," Naomi said, already standing and brushing off her jeans.

"Right! Priorities!" Lena jumped up, but not before fixing Cole with one last intense look. "Seriously. Come. You look like you need friends who won't make you do trust falls." She winked. "Find Warehouse D behind the visual arts building. You can't miss it—it's the one that looks like it hosts revolutions."And then she was gone, sprinting after Naomi who was already halfway across the quad, her blue-streaked hair flying behind her like a banner. Cole stood slowly, brushing stray flyers from his clothes. He looked down at the neon pink invitation in his hand, then back at the football brochure with Elan Carter's intense gaze. Two different worlds, colliding on his first day. He tucked the flyer into his pocket, a small, unexpected smile touching his lips. Maybe college wouldn't be so bad after all.

Magnolia Hall smelled like fresh paint, lemon cleaner, and the collective anxiety of two hundred students trying to pretend they weren't homesick. Cole found Room 307 at the end of a hallway echoing with the sounds of doors slamming, parents giving last-minute advice, and someone already playing guitar badly.

He pushed the door open.

The room was a study in contrasts. The left side was immaculate: a perfectly made bed with a gray comforter pulled taut, textbooks stacked with architectural precision on the desk, a single succulent thriving in a minimalist pot. The right side was a blank canvas—bare mattress, empty desk, silent closet.Cole claimed the right side, dropping his duffel with a sigh of relief. He was carefully unpacking his sketchbooks when the door flew open five minutes later.

"HONEY, I'M HOME!"

The hurricane entered first, followed by a human being. A lanky guy with a riot of brown curls and more energy than a squirrel on espresso bounded into the room, arms wrapped around a giant cardboard box labeled 'MEDICAL TEXTBOOKS: DO NOT BEND, DROP, OR LOOK AT DIRECTLY WITHOUT THERAPEUTIC SUPPORT'.

The box hit the floor with a thud that shook the windowpanes.

"You!" The guy pointed a dramatic finger at Cole. "You must be Cole! Alison texted me! Said you had 'quiet artist vibes' and that I shouldn't scare you off!" He stuck out a hand. "Warwick Doyle! Your roommate, your new best friend, and your primary source for questionable advice about campus life!"

Cole shook the offered hand, bemused. "Hi. Yeah, I'm Cole."

"Excellent! Fantastic! We're going to get along famously!" Warwick flopped onto his perfectly made bed, bouncing slightly. "I'm pre-med. Which means I'll either become a brilliant surgeon saving lives, or I'll have a mental breakdown by midterms and run away to raise emotional support goats. The odds are 50/50."

He sat up suddenly, eyes wide with intensity. "Okay, vital roommate compatibility questions. One: Favorite study snack?"

"Uh... pretzels?"

"Acceptable! Two: Thoughts on 8 AM classes?"

"A crime against humanity?"

"YES! We're aligned! Three—" Warwick leaned forward, lowering his voice as if asking for state secrets. "Pineapple on pizza. Culinary innovation or war crime?"

Cole couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "War crime."

Warwick gasped, clutching his chest as if shot. "CORRECT! The bond is sealed! We shall be brothers in arms against fruited savory dishes!" He jumped up, clapping Cole on the shoulder. "I knew we'd be compatible! The housing algorithm has blessed us!" His phone buzzed violently on the desk. He glanced at it and groaned. "Ugh. Study group. The pre-med mafia summons me. They want to 'review organic chemistry concepts' which is code for 'mutually assure our despair.'" He grabbed a single notebook and a pen chewed beyond recognition. "Don't worry! I'll be back! We have so much to discuss! Like why the cafeteria's meatloaf looks vaguely sentient, and which library carrels are best for covert napping!"

At the door, he paused, turning back with a suddenly serious expression. "Oh! Almost forgot! Don't touch the experiment under my bed. It's either a forgotten turkey sandwich or a groundbreaking new mold culture. We'll know in about a week based on smell." And with that, he was gone, leaving the door swinging in his wake. Cole stared at the empty doorway, then looked around the room. On his desk, the neon pink flyer from Lena glowed cheerfully next to Alison's sensible blue folder. The stark, orderly side of the room belonging to Warwick—who was clearly anything but orderly—contrasted with his own slowly unpacking chaos. He finished arranging his sketchbooks, his hands moving over the familiar covers. For the first time since arriving, the tight ball of anxiety in his chest loosened just a little. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe a chaotic pre-med student and a neon flyer to an anarchist art party were exactly what he needed. He looked at the clock: 6:45 PM. He looked at the flyer. He looked at his comfortable hoodie.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe just for an hour.