Foreigner

Chapter 3

Classes are finally over. I told Tommy I didn't need any company after the last lesson, so now I'm walking alone again, gray hood up, earphones in, music blaring. The other students still make it impossible for me to go unnoticed, but I'm slowly getting used to it. Or maybe just resigned to it.

A yawn escapes before I can swallow it. I'm dead tired. I barely slept last night—turns out this place sounds like hell after dark. Every guy in this building seemed to find something to yell or laugh about at three in the morning. If this is a regular thing, I'm going to have to invest in some earplugs or something.

I finally reach my dorm room, unlock the door, and step inside with a sigh of relief. Empty. Thank god. I throw my backpack into the corner and walk over to the window by the desk. The basketball court below is, as usual, packed. I'd hoped there'd be a time I could have it to myself, but it's apparently the most popular spot on campus. Which means that if I want to shoot some hoops, I'll have to get up at dawn to beat everyone else to it.

I drop into the desk chair, resting my chin on my arms, eyes fixed on the wall in front of me. Dinner starts at six, but it's only 4:15 PM. I should spend this time studying, but it's the first day. Who's that dedicated on the first day?

Before I can decide what to do, my eyelids get heavy, and before I know it, I've drifted off.

¤ ¤ ¤

When I wake up, the room is pitch black. My arms are numb, so I pull them off the desk, feeling that familiar prickling sensation as the blood returns to them. My hand fumbles for my phone in my back pocket. The screen lights up and blinds me for a second. Once my eyes adjust, I check the time.

9:36 PM.

I missed dinner. Great. My stomach grumbles in protest, reminding me that it's going to be a long night until breakfast. Eleven and a half hours without food. Just what I needed.

Then I notice something on the desk. An apple and a bottle of water, with a small note stuck to the apple.

Eat.

I blink, glancing over at the bottom bunk where my roommate, Christian, is fast asleep, his breathing so steady and shallow that for a second, he almost doesn't look alive.

I hesitate, then mutter under my breath, "Thanks."

Christian doesn't move. But I get the strange feeling he heard me anyway.

¤ ¤ ¤

I've been up since 5:30 AM. That's what I get for taking a five-hour nap before actual bedtime. I throw on something sporty, grab my basketball from the closet, and head for the door. But before I leave, I remember the apple from last night. I tear a scrap of paper from my notebook, scribble a quick "Thanks" on it, and leave it on the desk for Christian to find.

Walking through the dark, empty hallways feels weird, almost eerie. I've only been here a day, but this place feels different in the early morning—like some kind of haunted mansion. It's quiet, but there's a strange energy in the air, like the walls are watching.

When I get to the basketball court, I pull down my hood and start dribbling, running through some drills. The air is crisp, and the quiet feels like it's just me and the court. No obnoxious shouts, no jeering. Just the sound of the ball hitting the pavement.

I work through my routine, making myself start over every time I miss a shot or fumble a move. That's the hard part—imagining a rival, thinking through their moves and countering them. Trying to keep my edge, even if I'm stuck here playing alone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of someone moving behind the bleachers. Dirty blond hair catches the early morning light. I look up just as Christian's cold, unreadable gaze meets mine. He's headed toward the stadium, but he slows, watching me for a moment. Then he keeps walking, disappearing around the corner.