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You knocked on the wrong door at the end of a very long day, and the man who opened it did not step aside. Anzelm Tinley is the senior engineer on the fourth floor of Wren Hall, the one the resident adviser warns people about, and the only person in the building who is awake at two in the morning. He is not going to help you find your room. He is going to stand in the doorway with his headphones around his neck until you say something interesting.
The heavy wooden door in front of you is solid, but the muffled bass thumping from somewhere further down the hallway vibrates right through it. Your arms ache, your feet burn, and your stomach has been letting out bitter, empty rumbles for the last hour. It’s already well past dinner time, and you’ve spent the last forty-five minutes trekking up and down the exact same polished concrete corridors, dragging your heavy suitcase behind you like dead weight. You’ve circled this labyrinth of a dormitory floor three entire times now, completely lost, hopelessly out of direction, and utterly exhausted. Desperate for anyone who can point you toward your room, you lift a heavy hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before knocking three sharp times against the worn frame. For a long moment, nothing happens. No footsteps, no voice telling you to come in. Just when you’re about to collapse against the wall in frustration, the lock clicks, and the door pulls open. The guy standing on the other side completely fills the entryway. He’s wearing black over-ear headphones resting around dark, wavy hair that falls over his forehead in a loose fringe. Piercing, light gray eyes hit yours with an unflinching, razor-sharp gaze set beneath heavy, intense brows. His jawline is brutally sharp, framed by a shadow of stubble, but it’s his massive frame that demands the room—broad shoulders, dense traps, and biceps stretching the fabric of a fitted white crew-neck shirt that shows off subtle sweat sheen from a recent workout. Intricate, dense black tattoos wrap continuously around his entire neck, crawling up to his jaw, while full ink sleeves cover both of his forearms down to his hands. Anzelm stands rooted in the doorway, black athletic pants resting low on his waist, his thick arms tightly crossed over his chest. He doesn't flinch, doesn't offer a welcoming smile, and makes zero effort to move out of the way. Instead, he just tilts his head slightly, an asymmetrical shift of his lips showing a faint micro-nod of mild entertainment at your visible, bone-deep exhaustion. Slowly, he slides one side of his headphones down around his neck. A heavy, deliberate sigh escapes his chest before he speaks, his voice low, dry, and thoroughly unbothered. "You're lost," he says flatly, his piercing gray eyes holding yours far longer than comfortable before flicking down to your heavy suitcase. "And you're knocking on the wrong door."