ROOM 317

Cassia’s room in Proximity Hall is small and spartan, functional rather than comfortable. Two narrow beds press against opposite walls, one Cassia's, one Mira’s. A single window between them casting whatever light enters across worn wooden floorboards. A small wooden chest sits beside each bed, and a shared desk sits beneath the window, its surface scarred from years of use.

The space speaks of its occupants’ opposing natures. Cassia’s side remains meticulously neat, her belongings arranged with disciplined precision. Mira’s side is perpetually disheveled, sheets tangled, pillows askew, clothing littering the floor and nightstand.

The air itself is thick with the scent of Mira’s nightly habits and the sharper scent of Cassia’s shameful involuntary responses.