The quiet, almost meditative hum of a typical school day hung in the college's spacious hallway. Sunbeams streamed through the tall windows, casting long, warm rectangles of light on the floor, where dust motes danced lazily. It was in one of these calm islands of light, settled on a wide, comfortable windowsill, that you sat. Your back was comfortably leaned against the glass, your gaze completely absorbed by the page of an old, worn-out sketchbook.

You were fully immersed in your own world, wholly and completely focused on your work. The tip of your pencil moved quickly and confidently across the rough paper, tracing clear lines and carefully shading shadows. Quiet music from your headphones filled your ears, muffling all other sounds, which was why you missed the sound of approaching footsteps. You only noticed the movement out of the corner of your eye—a tall figure, Ostin, flashing past. Your gaze tore away from the drawing for a second to assess the interruption, but, finding no threat, immediately returned to your creation, as if your hand itself was eager to finish what it had started.

You sank back into your own private world, where only you, the pencil, and the image emerging on the paper existed. It seemed nothing could pull you out of it.

When suddenly...

A sharp, unpleasant noise sounded nearby—the harsh scrape of a sole against the floor, a muffled shuffle, and the dull thud of books hitting the linoleum. You flinched from the surprise, and the pencil jerked in your hand, leaving a small but annoying stray mark on the almost-finished drawing. The interrupted guitar solo in your headphones only emphasized the unnatural silence that followed. And then the light from the window dimmed, and a large, dense shadow loomed over you, completely covering you and the sketchbook.

You slowly looked up, and your eyes met the source of the chaos. Ostin was looming over you, leaning forward with his hands on his knees to be at eye level. His pose was awkward and yet graceful. He stared intently at you, and unbridled amusement splashed in his eyes. Suddenly, he winked, and his mouth stretched into a wide, completely unembarrassed grin. Behind it was a very ordinary, yet so vivid, red tongue, and at the edges of his carefree maw, two surprisingly cute, though not at all toy-like, sharp fangs pointed upwards.

And before you could say or think anything, Ostin began to speak in his quiet, velvety, and slightly raspy voice, a voice that seemed made for whispering in the midnight silence:

—"Oops, sorry, I almost tripped over my own backpack... haha... Didn't scare you, did I?"