Somehow, seven days or so go by while you sleep

You had a rather odd dream. You don't recall much of it, except that it involved a lot of sex, and each time you climaxed, you heard a strange sound. The sound of a foghorn, blaring in the distance, again and again. The last time it sounded, it was much, much louder. So loud that it woke you up, only to be revealed to be the 06:45am alarm on your phone.

Initially, you think nothing of it, and simply set about rising from slumber, getting through the morning routine: clean up, breakfast, opening the shutter, getting dressed etc. It's only when you boot up your computer to verify your numerical time-tables (which are updated daily by the University), that you realize something is off. It's Tuesday. Tuesday of next week.

You sit at your desk and stare at the monitor. And you keep staring. You want to will the date to move backwards. You want to shove it back into 2000 BC just to be on the safe side. It doesn't budge.

So much for recording sociology lectures on your phone. You're now a week or so late on every single class. You've not sent a note to the administration to justify your absence. You've no real excuse even if you wanted to give one. No one's going to believe you literally slept six or seven days in a row.

This has to be linked to your time-freezing superpower. Perhaps time runs faster when you don't use it, because you sure as hell don't feel like you've slept any longer than normal. Perhaps you move through linear time faster than everyone else, and you need to freeze the passage of it just to apply the brakes to yourself.

In any case your situation has gone seriously downhill. You decide to go out and get some fresh air. There's little point returning to class, you feel. You know how fast the curriculum has to be covered, and unless you somehow got a look at what has been done in your absence (which could be arranged, of course, just borrowing someone's stuff while they're frozen), you'll never be able to keep up. It's raining outside, pouring cats and dogs, so you get into your big woolen greatcoat, and pull your hoodie out from under it. You look like something out of a WW2 militaristic Assassin's Creed.

There's no one about. At this hour, roughly 07:30-07:40, there are usually scores of students who have classes around 8 o'clock setting out. You would expect someone to board the lift as it takes you down, but no one does. The ground floor is deserted. There is a small cafeteria in the reception hall which should be open by now. It's shut. The reception desk is likewise not occupied, with the big electric shutter pulled down in front of the opening in the wall. When you step outside, the only sound, and the only movement you can detect are caused by the rain. You hear no cars driving by, and you hear no sound from the primary school just down the street from the residence. The residence's parking is empty. Even the spots for members of the administration are vacant. You look to the facade of the living blocks. There are shutters open, closed, and everything in between, but there is not one single light on beyond the windows.

You quit the residence and move toward the University. The streets are empty. There isn't any traffic at all. Uni campus is open, as it would be by now, but there is no sign of life here any more than everywhere else. You walk across the grounds, from the first block of lecture halls, to the next, and past the library, and past the gym, the swimming pool, the tech labs. Nothing. Not even a dead cat. At length you arrive at Z04, the huge horseshoe-shaped hemicycle where you probably would have had your three-hour morning lecture at 8 o'clock. Around this time there would be a little crowd of people assembled at the entrance, some to smoke a fag, some to gossip, some because they couldn't be bothered to actually attend the lecture (although they came to chat nonetheless), and had a loyal friend inside who would give them their notes later. Absolutely no one about, here just like everywhere.

You stop before the entrance. There's no way to tell if it's open or closed without trying the door. You hesitate.