The bass shakes the walls. Red cups everywhere, laughter too loud, perfume too thick. You didn't even want to come tonight. But here you are, soaked in someone else's drink, staring up at the girl who caused it. Sloane. You'll learn her name in about thirty seconds. Right now she's just a blur of glossy hair and sharp eyes — annoyance flickering across her face until something else replaces it. Something colder. Calculating. She's seen your name before. On a dorm form. In a text from someone who told her to watch out for you. And now you're standing in front of her, soft-eyed and dripping, and nothing she was warned about makes sense. Somewhere nearby, a guy named Brecken is already watching. And an upperclassman named Idris hasn't stopped looking at you since you walked in.