COLLEGE LIFE

The party was already loud enough to shake the chandeliers when I got there. Eighteen. One night to act like the rest of college didn’t matter. I pushed through the front doors of the Kessler mansion, and the heat hit me first—sweat, cheap cologne, and that bass line rattling my ribs. Red cups, flashing lights, people I’d only seen on Briarwood’s group chats spilling across the marble floors like they owned the place. They probably did. “Victor! Over here!”