Chapter 25: The Unexpected Visitor
The sound of the racing game’s engines was a low, digital purr, filling the silent dorm. Rosé lay sprawled across Leonid’s bed, her controller resting on her stomach as she watched pixel cars blur around a track. She’d given up playing properly ten minutes ago. The room held a strange, suspended quality without him in it. It was just his things, his smell—that mix of clean sweat, expensive cologne, and old tobacco—and the faint, lingering ghost of their laughter from the night before.
She hummed a melody, a line that had been stuck in her head all morning, turning it over to find a harmony. The flickering TV light played over the discarded pizza box, his volleyball sneakers, a single crumpled pack of American Spirits.
A knock at the door.
She didn’t move. “It’s open, dumbass. Forget your key again?”
Silence from the hallway. Then another knock. Precise. Unhurried.
She paused the game, the sudden quiet feeling heavy. Oh. Right. He was at practice. That whole thing. She pushed herself off the bed, the worn floorboards cool under her feet. “Coming!”
She opened the door, a casual smile already forming, expecting maybe Marco or one of his teammates.
It wasn’t.
The girl from the quad stood in the dim hallway light. Dressed in head-to-toe black, her long silken hair falling like a shadow around her shoulders. Jennie Kim. Up close, her doll-like beauty was even more striking, and somehow more unnatural. Her feline eyes didn’t blink. They just fixed on Rosé, absorbing her, starting at her bare feet, traveling up her sweatpants, lingering on the faded band t-shirt, finally locking onto her face.
Rosé felt a physical chill, a prickling at the back of her neck. “Oh. Hi.”
“Where is Leonid?” Jennie’s voice was soft, eerily melodic, but each word was a perfectly formed marble dropped into stillness.
“He’s, uh, at practice. Volleyball.” Rosé hooked a thumb over her shoulder, as if the direction mattered. “Can I… take a message?”
Jennie’s head tilted, just a fraction. Her gaze drifted past Rosé, into the room. She didn’t ask to come in. She simply stepped forward, a smooth, silent motion that forced Rosé to step back. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click.
“He’ll be back soon,” Jennie stated, her eyes sweeping the clutter. They lingered on the two coffee mugs on the desk, the extra pillow on the bed, Rosé’s open laptop playing a lyric video on mute. “I’ll wait.”
“Okay…?” Rosé’s usual bubbly chatter died in her throat. This wasn’t a social call. This was an inspection. She watched, rooted to the spot, as Jennie moved through the space like a curator in a private gallery.
Jennie stopped by the bed. Her hand, adorned with silver rings, reached out and picked up the black-and-white volleyball jersey Leonid had tossed there before he left. She brought it to her face, burying her nose in the fabric at the collar. She inhaled, deeply, her eyes fluttering closed for a long, unsettling second.
A hot twist of revulsion coiled in Rosé’s gut. “Uh, do you want me to tell him you stopped by? I’m Rosé, by the way.”
The eyes opened. Jennie lowered the jersey, holding it against her chest. “I know who you are.” She offered a smile. It was a slow, careful stretching of her full lips that didn’t reach her dark eyes. “You’re the new friend. The singer.”
“Yeah. That’s me.” Rosé tried to match the lightness, failing. “And you’re Jennie. From the econ seminar.”
“He talks about me.” It wasn’t a question.
“He… mentioned you.” Vaguely. From around. The memory of Leonid’s dismissive tone on the quad rang hollow now.
Jennie hummed, a sound of quiet satisfaction. She placed the jersey back on the bed, smoothing it with a tenderness that made Rosé’s skin crawl. Her gaze fell on the desk, on the little ceramic ashtray he used. She walked over and picked up a single, discarded cigarette butt, rolling it between her finger and thumb.
“These are bad for him,” she murmured, more to herself than to Rosé.
“He’s a big boy. Makes his own choices.” The words came out with more edge than Rosé intended.
Jennie’s head snapped up. The full force of her attention was like a spotlight. “Choices are influenced by environment. By proximity.” Her eyes flicked to Rosé’s laptop, the playlist titled “Rosie’s Jams.” “You’ve been spending a lot of time here.”
“We’re friends. It’s what friends do.” Rosé crossed her arms, a defensive barrier. “Listen, maybe you should just text him. This is kind of his private space.”
“It is,” Jennie agreed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It smells like him. And now… it smells like you, too. Coconut and weed and girl.” She said ‘girl’ like it was a foreign substance. “It’s a confusing scent profile.”
Rosé’s breath hitched. This was beyond weird. This was a territory marking. “You need to leave.”
Jennie ignored her. She moved to the closet, her hand brushing over the hanging shirts. She stopped, her fingers finding something on a shelf. She pulled it out. It was the cherry blossom hairpin, glinting silver in the TV’s blue light. She must have left it earlier, when she’d been in the room alone before Rosé arrived.
“He kept it,” Jennie whispered, the words dripping with a profound, terrifying pleasure. She pinned it into her own hair, the silver stark against the black. She turned back to Rosé, the smile now genuine, and therefore infinitely worse. “See? He understands. The game film was boring. He probably left early. He’ll be here any minute.”
The certainty in her voice was absolute. Rosé thought of the hairpin, of the locker room, of this girl knowing his schedule, his routines, the texture of his solitude. This wasn’t a crush. This was a mapping.
A key scratched in the lock.
Both women turned.
The door opened, and Leonid filled the doorway, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from a shower. He froze. His eyes went from Rosé’s alarmed face to Jennie, standing by his closet, his pin in her hair, his sanctuary breached.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The air crackled, thick with violated silence.
Leonid’s expression, initially stunned, hardened into something cold and smooth as river stone. He dropped his bag. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.
“Jennie.” His voice was low, a deep rumble that held no surprise. Only a flat, controlled acknowledgment. “Get out.”