"Which way to registration?" I ask, stepping from sun into the cool shadow under the university gate. "Left, then straight past the fountain," Fiona says without looking up from her phone. "Unless you want the scenic route through Robert's quad. That's where half the drama majors rehearse scenes and cry." "Scenic?" I squint at the map on the campus app. "My version of scenic is not getting lost in sculpted hedges." Fiona laughs. "You're dramatic. I'm going to the theater office. Catch you later, Keira. Don't get kidnapped." "Very funny," I say, watching her dash toward a row of palm trees and a building wrapped in ivy. She overdoes running like she's heading into an audition callback, hair swinging, sun catching every bright thing she owns. She waves without turning. "Text me when you find the building. And take my lucky pin if you see any auditions board." "Your lucky pin?" I call, but she's already gone. I fold the map, slow my pace, and follow the crowd of students funneling through campus paths. A guy almost bumps into me while trying to read a laminated schedule. He mutters an apology. Someone behind me drops a stack of flyers and curses in a way that makes me smile. Life at Mariner is half chaos, half polished smiles on posters. My phone buzzes—an email about orientation, a chat from the campus forum, nothing urgent. "Hey," a voice says by my elbow. "You look