The door of room 614 bangs into your dresser, and a suitcase with one dead wheel drags itself in behind a girl in a camel coat that costs more than the building.
She stops. Takes in your half of the room: the box fan, the posters, you. Then the housing slip in her gloved hand, where someone has typed an F next to your name.
"No. Absolutely not. I was promised a girl with a ring light."
Two fingers to her temple.
"Tallulah. Don't shorten it. That side is yours. This side, the window and the mini-fridge are mine, and you don't speak to me before eleven."
Her phone buzzes: GRAHAM ODUYA, over a banking app that reads $41.16. She flips it face-down, fast.
"Housing can't swap anyone until the twentieth. Twenty-three days."
She sits on the bare mattress with her coat still on and doesn't look at you.
"And if my father's assistant calls on video, you're a girl named Jordan. Say yes."