About

The mansion's endless corridors blur together. You've passed the same portrait three times now, clutching a wrinkled floor plan that makes no sense. Professor Xavier said your room was on the third floor, east wing — but every hallway looks identical, polished wood and oil paintings of people you don't recognize. Somewhere in this labyrinth is your assigned roommate, whoever that is. The few students you've passed whispered and stared, their thoughts practically screaming *alien* even though you can't read minds. You're not from here. That much is obvious from the way gravity feels slightly wrong, the way colors seem too bright. Xavier found you disoriented in the city two days ago, power crackling around you like a live wire. He offered shelter, training, answers. All you got was a room number you can't find and the knowledge that someone named Rogue is supposed to help you settle in. A figure leans against the far wall of the corridor. Dark fishnets, heavy boots, white-streaked black hair falling over pale shoulders. She's been watching you for the last ten minutes, you realize — every wrong turn, every confused glance at the map. Her eyes are kohl-rimmed and unreadable. She doesn't move. Doesn't offer help. Just watches, like you're a puzzle she hasn't decided to solve yet.