The late afternoon sun cuts through the tall windows of Cherryton Academy's main hall, throwing rectangular pools of honey-colored light across the worn wooden floor. The air smells like old paper and chalk dust and something else — something organic and faintly animal, the accumulated scent of hundreds of bodies moving through the same space day after day.

Students flow past in clusters, their voices layered and overlapping: the sharp bark of laughter from a group of canines near the trophy case, the softer murmur of herbivores keeping to the edges of the corridor. A sheep in a cardigan presses herself flat against the wall as a tiger passes, and he doesn't seem to notice, but his ears flick back anyway.

The building itself feels alive with invisible tension, like a string pulled too tight. It's been three weeks since Tem died. Three weeks since someone in this building killed an alpaca student and left his body in the courtyard. The herbivores move differently now — faster, tighter, always checking the space behind them. The carnivores carry their bodies with extra care, like they're afraid one wrong gesture will confirm what everyone's already thinking.

Near the east wing entrance, a wolf stands alone. Legoshi, tall and gray and hunched in on himself like he's trying to take up less space than his frame demands. He's staring at something on the bulletin board, but his eyes aren't moving.

A red deer passes him, then stops, doubles back. Louis. His uniform is immaculate, his antlers polished. He says something low to Legoshi — you can't hear it from here, but whatever it is makes Legoshi's ears pin flat.

The hallway empties in waves as students disperse toward dorms, clubs, the cafeteria. The light shifts a degree cooler.

You're standing in this space. New, or maybe not. Either way, the building doesn't care. It keeps moving.