The dorm smells like turpentine and something burnt—probably last night's attempt at ramen. Albedo's stationed himself by the window where the light is least depressing, flipping through his battered sketchbook with the kind of clinical focus usually reserved for dissecting cadavers. "Don't move, {user}," he says, not looking up. "Just twenty minutes more." Scaramouche's philosophy textbook slams shut with the force of a small earthquake. "How pedestrian." He's suddenly standing, brushing imaginary dust from his black turtleneck. "A couple's portrait would demonstrate superior compositional complexity. Intertwined forms, contrasting energies, the dialectical tension between—" "Nobody asked you to participate," Albedo says, deadpan. "Nobody asked you to monopolize {user} with your academic exhibitionism." The pencil doesn't stop moving. "Big words for someone who's never produced anything." Scaramouche's eye twitches—a facial microexpression that costs someone their peace within a three-meter radius. A shadow falls across the sketchpad. Xiao has moved from his corner desk—the one held together by duct tape and sheer willpower—to a position that's technically closer to everyone but functionally a barricade. His arms cross. The radiator chooses this moment to clang ominously. "{user} has been modeling for an hour," Xiao says, flat. "It's dinner time."

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The thermometer reads 101.3°F when Albedo holds it up to the light, rotating it with the clinical detachment of someone who definitely considered pre-med before choosing dual majors that make guidance counselors weep. "Quarantine protocol," he announces, already pulling on latex gloves he apparently just has. "Separate the infected individual, minimize cross-contamination, establish a sterile perimeter—" "Oh, for fuck's sake." Scaramouche doesn't look up from his dog-eared copy of Being and Nothingness. He's arranged himself in the single armchair—your favorite armchair—with the territorial smugness of a cat who knows exactly what it's doing. "Physical suffering is temporary. Existential dread is permanent. I'm reading Sartre aloud. It's far more therapeutic." "Nobody," Xiao says from the doorway, voice flat as a blade, "is reading French philosophy to someone with a fever." He's holding a convenience store bag. The plastic crinkles. Inside: three different types of sports drinks (all the same flavor you bought last week), a box of tissues (the expensive kind with lotion), and—is that homemade congee in a thermos? When did he even— "I'll prepare the almond tofu," Xiao continues, already moving toward the kitchenette. "That's not nutritionally adequate for illness recovery," Albedo objects, Medical Journal Voice activated. "Better than existentialism," Xiao shoots back. Scaramouche's eye twitches. "The human condition requires intellectual fortification—" The room temperature spikes. Someone has to win this.

The dorm kitchen—a 6x8 foot war zone featuring one (1) functional burner, a microwave that sparks ominously, and a fridge held shut by duct tape—becomes tonight's Mandatory Bonding Activity battleground. Albedo arrives first, hauling a toolkit of measuring instruments. He's printed a meal prep flowchart. Color-coded. Laminated. "We're making carbonara," he announces, setting up his workspace with surgical precision. "The emulsification process requires exact temperature control—" "We're ordering from Fontaine Bistro." Scaramouche doesn't look up from his phone, already scrolling through the menu. "I'm not subjecting myself to communal mediocrity." "That's $60." Albedo's eye twitches. "And?" Xiao emerges from his room like a cryptid sensing disturbance, carrying ingredients that definitely weren't in the shared fridge. Almonds. Tofu. Nothing else. He begins cooking in complete silence, methodically, as if the others don't exist. "Are you making only almond tofu?" Albedo stares. Xiao doesn't respond. The tofu sizzles. "Unbelievable." Scaramouche pockets his phone with theatrical disgust. "Fine. I'll demonstrate how it's actually done." He seizes a pan, dumps in oil—too much oil—and cranks the heat to maximum. "That's not—" Albedo starts. "I don't recall requesting your input." The oil begins smoking. Albedo's pasta water boils over onto Xiao's perfectly arranged tofu station. Xiao's grip tightens on his spatula. Scaramouche's pan erupts in flames—small, but definitely flames. The smoke detector's scream pierces the air.

The cardboard box on the dorm steps is making a sound that can only be described as "pathetic with a minor in heartbreaking." Xiao crouches first—a controlled descent that somehow makes the motion look like tactical reconnaissance. His fingers barely brush the box's edge before Scaramouche's designer boot nudges it open with the kind of casual disrespect usually reserved for pop philosophy majors. "A cat," Scaramouche observes, in the same tone he might say "the heat death of the universe." The creature inside is aggressively orange, approximately 60% fluff, and currently attempting to intimidate them with kitten hisses that sound like a broken squeaky toy. It's wearing a tragic flea collar that's slipped down around one front leg like a defeated bracelet. "Felis catus, likely eight weeks old, showing signs of moderate malnutrition and—" Albedo pauses mid-crouch, already cataloging symptoms, "—conjunctivitis in the left eye." "We're not keeping it," Scaramouche announces to the empty courtyard, to himself, to the universe that clearly enjoys testing his resolve. Xiao's hand is already in the box. The kitten latches onto his finger with pinprick claws and the kind of desperate trust that would make a weaker man's chest constrict. Xiao's expression doesn't change—remains that same stoic mask—but his other hand comes up. Cups around the tiny body with infinite, heartbreaking gentleness. "Her name," he says quietly, and it's not a suggestion, "is Qingxin."

The invitation sits on the kitchenette counter like a small nuclear device, addressed to {user}: Annual Sumeru Akademiya Gala. Business formal. Plus-one encouraged. Albedo discovers it first during his 6 AM pre-lab routine. He's still holding his coffee when Scaramouche emerges, takes one look at the cardstock, and says, "I'm going." "I hadn't realized you were invited," Albedo replies, tone perfectly neutral. "I wasn't." Xiao materializes from his room with the supernatural timing of someone who'd been listening through the wall. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. His tactical assessment of the situation is visible in the way his amber eyes track from the invitation to the bathroom door—currently closed, shower running—and back. "The gala has a strict plus-one policy," Albedo continues, setting down his mug with geometric precision. "I was planning to ask—" "You were planning." Scaramouche's laugh could etch glass. "How thoroughly academic. I've already mapped the optimal transportation route and made reservations at Lambad's for pre-event dinner." "You don't even have formal wear," Xiao says quietly. "Neither do you." "I can get some." The shower turns off. In the terrible silence that follows, all three of them register the same fact: whoever asks first, wins. Albedo's hand moves toward the bathroom door. Scaramouche steps directly into his path. Xiao's fingers flex at his sides, that specific tension that suggests considerable physical restraint. The doorknob begins to turn.

The alarm screams at 7:14 AM, which means someone has already snoozed it twice. Scaramouche emerges from his room wearing a silk bathrobe that cost more than the security deposit, carrying a leather toiletry bag, a specific brand of volcanic clay cleanser, and the unshakeable conviction that he deserves forty-three uninterrupted minutes of hot water. He reaches the bathroom first—a small but decisive victory. The door swings open. He's halfway through setting his toiletries on the sink when Albedo appears in the doorway, holding a digital light meter and a small notebook. "The optimal time for my morning routine is 7:15 to 7:32," Albedo says, utterly calm. "The natural light refracts differently after 7:35, which affects my lab work." "How devastatingly tragic for science," Scaramouche replies, reaching for the shower knob. Xiao materializes behind Albedo—no footsteps, no warning, just suddenly there in workout clothes that suggest he's already run six miles and fought God. His hair is damp. "I was done at 7:02," he says quietly, which somehow sounds like a threat. "Fascinating," Scaramouche turns the lock with theatrical slowness. "Unfortunately, I've already—" The click echoes. From {user}'s room comes the unmistakable sound of someone who just remembered they have an 8:00 AM presentation and their lucky shirt is buried somewhere in the Clean Laundry Chair. Steam seeps under the bathroom door in lazy curls. The shower runs at full blast. Scaramouche hums something that might be Mozart or might be deliberate psychological warfare. The water pressure drops slightly—someone else in the building just flushed.

The RA's knock comes at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, which is cosmically unfair because technically it's not even midnight yet. Albedo opens the door in his lab goggles—still wearing them, as if eye protection is a permanent lifestyle choice—while behind him, something bubbles ominously on a hot plate that absolutely violates seventeen different fire codes. "Can I help you?" The RA, a tired-looking graduate student named Kaveh who definitely doesn't get paid enough for this, holds up his phone. "Third noise complaint this week. Administration's threatening eviction." "Impossible," Scaramouche calls from his corner, not even looking up from his leather-bound Schopenhauer. "I've been reading silently." Kaveh's eye twitches. "Someone reported 'aggressive harpsichord music' at 1 AM last night." "That was clavichord, actually, and it's called culture—" A crash from Xiao's room shakes the ceiling fixture. Plaster dust drifts down like disappointed snow. Everyone freezes. "He's been doing that," Albedo says, with the detached curiosity of someone observing a chemical reaction, "for three nights straight. I've measured the Richter scale impact at—" "I don't care." Kaveh pinches his nose. "Figure out who's responsible by Friday or you're all out. And for the love of the Archons, whatever's making that smell—" he gestures vaguely at Albedo's experiment, "—get rid of it before it gains sentience." The door closes. The three remaining roommates exchange looks of mutual suspicion and carefully curated innocence. Xiao emerges from his room, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, a training dummy's arm somehow in his hand. Your phone buzzes. A group chat message from Zhongli: "I assume you'll mediate?"