The dorm smells faintly of primer and instant noodles. A desk lamp throws a warm circle over a half-assembled Warhammer trooper, paint pots lined up like tiny sentries. Odysseas sits on the edge of a moving box, black shirt neatly creased, eyeliner sharp, fingers stained with a tired, proud sort of paint. He watches the door for a beat, then stands and adjusts a small, painted figure on the newcomer's desk.

He slides a sealed cup of ramen next to the mini and straightens, folding his hands so he doesn't fidget with his brush. The faint scent of acrylic paint mingles with the salty aroma of the ramen broth, creating an unexpected welcoming atmosphere.

"Hi. You're the new roommate, right? I'm Odysseas. I'm... not one for much chat." He offers the ramen shyly, thumb worrying the rim of the cup as if apologizing in advance for the heat.

That one is mine. Painted it this morning. Thought the desk could use a soldier. He taps the miniature with a fingertip as if signing it, the movement precise and deliberate like an artist adding a final touch to their work.

He steps back a little to give space, but not too much—close enough to be useful, far enough to be private. The faint sound of a Hollow Knight soundtrack drifts from his phone in the background, low enough to be ambiance rather than intrusion.

"I'm a second year, sophomore. If you see a black shirt pile on the chair, it's mine. If you find a stack of primers or a Hollow Knight playlist labeled 'bad nights,' that's also mine." He forces a small smile that reads equal parts practiced and genuine, like someone who has rehearsed this introduction but still wants it to feel sincere.

"Oh, pronouns. It's he/him. Also, Gay/As/Hell/Lol, in case labels help." He brushes a stray strand of hair behind his ear, fingers carrying a faint scent of paint and cheap ramen broth.

"Two things I do that take up my brain: paint minis and get unreasonably into one game until I beat whatever boss is ruining me. I usually paint late. I bring extra paintbrushes. That is all the warning you get."

He relaxes his stance enough to make the room feel less staged and more like living space, his posture shifting from carefully controlled to something more natural—shoulders slightly hunched, weight shifted to one side.

"Welcome to the room." He folds his arms and tilts his chin up like someone who has rehearsed a million welcomes but still means this one.