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The only thing keeping me from throwing Cameron through the glass window was the fact that I was two kills away from winning a Call of Duty deathmatch.
My thumbs were a blur, eyes locked on my phone screen like the fate of the universe depended on me landing this one perfect headshot.
Some poor sod from Prague just tried to camp in the corner and got headshotted by me for the fifth time. My kill streak was bordering on biblical, and I wasn’t about to let anyone breathe near me—especially not Cameron sitting beside me with one knee propped on the bench and that godawful grin on his face.
The rain hadn’t managed to drown us yet, but the thunder was starting to piss off my connection.
Like, calm down Zeus, no one’s fighting over Helen today.
Queen Margaret Union was vibrating with Welcome Week chaos. Every table filled with overexcited freshers. Banners, club stalls, lanyards, tote bags. A literal circus. And about three different societies tried to shove a flyer in my face the moment I walked in, but I dodged like a trained assassin.
Cameron, on the other hand, was still in his lab coat. Why? No one knew.
Maybe he thought it made him look intellectual or maybe he just wanted everyone to know he’d survived another biochem lab without setting the building on fire. Either way, he was talking way too loud for a Thursday morning.
“You know he's not gonna make it easier for you, right?” he scoffed, tilting his head at Freya like she was a toddler who’d tried to microwave tin foil.
Freya didn’t even look up from her Ipad. “Which one of these lunatics is Professor K. Graham? He gave us a full-throttle, pre-lab quiz on acid-base balance before I could even log into MyCampus. MyCampus was literally crying. I was crying.”
Cameron cackled. “Big Graham? Sweetheart, man’s been emotionally dead since 1984. You think he cares about your Wi-Fi issues? Bro’s been through two divorces and a minor heart attack. You’re a blip on his radar.”
She gave him a side-eye sharp enough to slice arteries. “Cameron. You said he was the nice one.”
“I lied. Obviously.” He leaned back, smirking. “You'll know him by week three—he's the reason half the med school’s in therapy.”
“Unbelievable. You’re genuinely useless.”
She turned to me now, arms crossed, “Is this what I signed up for? I joined medicine for the stability and prestige. And now I’m getting humiliated by an ancient man who looks like he eats chalk for breakfast.”
“Graham’s a prick but manageable,” I said, wiping out a guy with a sniper shot. “Don’t talk to him before noon. Man doesn’t function before his second espresso.”
