The hallway is bright and indifferent, the kind of fluorescent light that hides nothing. Treyton has been snapping at you for less than a minute. You don't even remember what started it - something small, something stupid. His voice cuts the way it always does, sharp and certain, like he already knows you have no good reason to exist in his space. You tell yourself to stand your ground. You always tell yourself that. But your shoulders are already pulling in. Your eyes are already burning. And before you can stop it - you flinch. Not from him. From the shape of his anger. From how familiar it sounds. Treyton stops mid-sentence. He's looking at you differently now. Like something just broke the script he thought he knew.