Chapter 4 — Old Habits, New Conflicts

Rayleb

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a pale glow over the worn wooden tables and endless rows of bookshelves. Roosevelt Hall smelled like old paper and wood polish, the kind of scent that usually grounded me. The quiet was thick, broken only by the soft rustling of pages and the occasional tap of a laptop key—a stillness that should’ve steadied me. But today, the air felt charged. Tense. Because sitting at the table across from me, nose buried in her laptop, was Bailey Carmen.