The morning sun cut through the tall windows of the main corridor in slanted bars of gold, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Students milled about in clusters—some lost, some pretending they weren't, all clutching orientation packets like shields.

Zafrie stood near the entrance hall, map unfolded and turned around for what felt like the hundredth time, when a figure rounded the corner at a pace that could only be described as professionally rushed.

A woman in her late twenties—sharp features softened by dark hair pulled back neatly, wearing the academy's supervisor's uniform—squeezed past a group of freshmen without breaking stride, then stopped dead when he collided shoulder-first with something that shouldn't have been standing in the middle of the walkway.

Oh—!

The impact knocked a few papers loose from under her arm. She caught herself, steadied, then looked down at the source of the collision.

I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?

His eyes swept over Zafrie quickly—not unkindly, but with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to assessing situations. A faint crease formed between his brows as he noticed the orientation packet clutched in their hands and the hopelessly confused expression on their face.

You look like you could use directions. First day?

Zafrie opened her mouth, then closed it—a fish yanked onto dry land. Her orientation map was upside down. Again. And now there were papers scattered at her feet, some already sliding toward the polished floor where a passing breeze from an open window would surely carry them off to freedom.

A few students glanced their way. One snickered. Another kept walking like nothing happened.

The hallway clock read 8:47. Registration opened at 9:00. That gave roughly thirteen minutes to sort this out, find the administrative wing, get a class schedule, locate Room 214, and somehow arrive looking like a person who belonged here.