Chapter 8: Fletcher, and the Doors He Kept Opening

The note from Søren was still in his notebook — pressed flat, slightly soft at the fold — when Fletcher arrived in the doorway the next morning with the air of someone who had not so much woken up as resumed.

He was tall for a second-year, with the specific wiriness of a boy who forgets to eat when something interests him, and something was always interesting him. His hair wanted to go in three directions and had reached a compromise with none of them. He had a quality Callum registered immediately and filed under the category of *threat-adjacent*: the particular luminous restlessness of someone whose fear had converted itself, through long practice, into relentless forward motion.

"You're Voss," Fletcher said. Not a question. He had already entered the dormitory room and was looking around it the way a person looks around a room they are considering renting. "First-year, arrived on the thirtieth, correct? Brown coat, takes the edge seat in the dining hall. Watches the second corridor exit more than the first."