Chapter 162: 162 | The Common Room Collision
"Seven hundred and fifty square feet," Diane said from behind me, already pulling up something on her phone. "Larger than your bedroom at home by approximately one hundred and twenty square feet. The bathroom has a rain shower, which you’ll appreciate after training. I’ve confirmed with facilities that the hot water heater for this floor operates independently from the communal system, so you won’t lose pressure when twenty girls shower at the same time."
Sloane blinked. "You called facilities about my hot water?"
"I called facilities about the entire building’s HVAC system, plumbing infrastructure, and fire suppression protocols. The hot water was a bonus inquiry."
I set the garment bags on the closet rod and the duffel beside the dresser. Through the window, the training grounds spread out below us in a patchwork of open fields and enclosed arenas. A few early-arrival students were already running laps on the nearest track, their silhouettes small against the white concrete.
"I’m going to start unpacking," Sloane said, which was Sloane for go away and let me have a minute.
"We’ll bring the rest up," I said.
Sloane nodded without looking at me. Her hand found the edge of the mattress plastic and began peeling it back with focused intent.
The next forty minutes were a vertical logistics exercise. Elevator up with boxes. Elevator down empty-handed. Repeat. Diane supervised from the hallway with the efficiency of an air traffic controller, directing me to bring the heavier items first and the garment bags last because garment bags should never be compressed beneath boxes regardless of how carefully Sloane claims she stacked them.
On my third trip through the ground floor common area, a girl with vibrant red hair and an undercut slammed into me at full speed.
Not maliciously. She simply hadn’t been looking where she was going because she was in the middle of an argument with someone twenty feet behind her, her entire body turned backward while her legs kept moving forward, which was the kind of spatial awareness that suggested either supreme confidence or an absolute disregard for physics.
The impact barely registered on my frame. Eighty Strength meant that a girl who stood maybe five-two and weighed a hundred and ten pounds wet felt like being bumped by a strong breeze. She bounced off my chest and stumbled back a step, her green eyes going wide before a grin split her face.
"Oh, whoa. Okay. You’re like a wall." She craned her neck to look up at me, taking in the six feet and two inches with the kind of assessment that was equal parts sizing-up and appreciation. "A tall wall. Are you 1-A?"
"1-B."
"Shame. Would’ve been fun." She stuck out her hand with the energy of someone who had never hesitated about anything in her entire life. "Koda Brynn."
I shook it. Her grip was absurdly strong for her size, her palm callused in places that spoke to years of close-combat training. Warmth radiated from her skin in a way that went beyond normal body temperature.
"Lukas Belmont."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Belmont. Like Vanguard and Reina Belmont?"
"Yeah."
"That’s awesome. My dad watched your mom’s fight against Ironwrack like seventeen times. Said it was the cleanest takedown he’d ever seen." She punched my shoulder with more force than a girl her size had any right to generate. "Welcome to Halloran, legacy kid."
Before I could respond, the person she’d been arguing with arrived. A guy about my height with warm brown hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners because he was grinning so hard his face looked like it might cramp. He wore a fitted academy tracksuit with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his entire body vibrated with a restless energy that made him seem like he was vibrating at a frequency slightly above the rest of reality.
"Koda, you can’t just tackle people in the common room on the first day."
"I didn’t tackle him. I ran into him. There’s a difference."
"The difference is about three miles per hour and a liability waiver."
"He’s fine. Look at him. He’s like a telephone pole with abs."
The guy extended his hand past Koda with an apologetic grin. "Dash Reyes. Sorry about her. She’s been like this since we got here. I think the altitude is making her worse."
"We’re at eighteen hundred feet, not Everest."
"Your behavior suggests otherwise."
I shook Dash’s hand. Lighter grip than Koda’s but quicker, the handshake of someone who processed the world in rapid-fire bursts and moved on to the next thing before the current thing had finished happening. His brown eyes scanned me with a friendly interest that carried zero threat.
"Lukas Belmont."
"Oh, I know. You’re the entrance exam guy who spent the whole practical setting up other people instead of farming his own kills. My buddy in Field Three said you used a stop sign as a melee weapon."
"It was available."
Dash laughed. The sound was bright and genuine and carried across the common room loud enough that several people turned to look. "That’s the most Halloran answer I’ve ever heard and classes haven’t even started."
Koda had already moved on to examining the kitchen with the proprietary interest of someone who intended to cook in it frequently and with significant structural consequences. She opened the oven, nodded approvingly at the interior dimensions, and closed it with enough force to rattle the handle.
"Dual ovens," she called back. "This place is serious about food. I respect that."
A third person materialized from the direction of the hallway that led to the elevator bank. She was shorter than me by about nine inches, lean and athletic, with deep black hair cut to shoulder length in a way that looked like she’d spent exactly zero seconds thinking about it. Her eyes were a striking silver-grey that caught the light from the windows and reflected it back with a quality that made me think of circuit boards. Of processing power. She carried a single box under one arm and her student ID in the other hand, moving through the room with the economy of someone who had already mapped every obstacle and selected the optimal path between them.
She stopped when she saw the three of us standing in the common area. Her gaze moved from Koda (loud, short, already touching things) to Dash (grinning, vibrating, talking) to me (tall, still holding Sloane’s toiletry box, mildly overwhelmed) and apparently drew conclusions about all of us in the space between one breath and the next.
"Gia Mercer," she said. "Third floor. Is the elevator always this slow or is today a special occasion."
