Luca stepped into the orientation hall.
The doors creaked shut behind him, and at once, a soft buzz of murmured voices washed over him—low, subdued, heavy. The air inside was strangely quiet for a room full of students, hundreds of them seated on long rows of benches. Bandages peeked out from beneath collars, over sleeves, and across temples. Some students leaned back with closed eyes, others hunched forward, hands fidgeting with the hems of their robes.
They looked just like him. Worn. Bruised. But alive.
His gaze flicked across the crowd until he spotted familiar figures—Eric and Kyle, seated together near the middle rows. Without a word, he walked over and gave a tired nod in greeting before sinking onto the bench beside them.
"Hey," Luca muttered.
Kyle looked over, his face stitched across the jawline. "Hey, man. You holding up?"
"I've had better weeks," Luca said dryly. "You?"
"Barely. My ribs still feel like they're rearranging themselves."
