Hangovers have a peculiar way of making you question everything that happened the night before, as if your memories are filtered through doubt and glowing drinks. That's exactly how Nze felt as he lay sprawled on his bed, his consciousness crawling back like a tired soldier trudging through the trenches.

The relentless knocking on his door wasn't helping. It ricocheted through his skull like a pinball machine gone haywire, each thud threatening to split his head open. But the real problem wasn't the headache. It was the memory of Bee turning into a leopard—an unsettling image lurking at the edge of his mind like a persistent MTN notification.

"It had to be a dream," he muttered, taking stock of his situation. He was in his boxers and socks—his usual sleeping attire. That small, mundane detail reassured him. Who else would have left him exactly like this?

But the knocking? That was anything but mundane.

Groaning, Nze grabbed a hoodie from his chair—a chair perpetually draped in clothing, serving more as a wardrobe than actual furniture. It was soft, familiar, and definitely unironed, but it would do. Stumbling toward the door felt like wading through molasses. Every step was a negotiation between his desire to silence the knocking and his body's firm belief that staying horizontal was the only acceptable option.

When he finally opened the door, he was greeted by a young man surrounded by an alarming amount of luggage. His new roommate. The guy had that fresh, eager look of someone who hadn't yet faced their first university hangover. Nze felt simultaneously ancient and envious.

And then came the "Hi." It wasn't just any "Hi" – it was a "Hi" carried on the wings of what could only be described as weapons-grade morning breath, the kind that could probably be classified as a biohazard in at least seven states. The new roommate's slight recoil was subtle but unmistakable, like watching someone try to politely decline a high-five while maintaining diplomatic relations.

The irony wasn't lost on Nze: here he was, questioning whether last night's supernatural encounter was real, while actively participating in the very real horror show of subjecting an innocent bystander to his morning breath. Because that's the thing about college – sometimes the most unbelievable parts of your day are the most mundane ones, and sometimes the most mundane parts feel like something out of a fever dream.

And speaking of fever dreams, was that a scratch mark on his ankle?

"I'm Oluwaseun Adebayo," the new roommate said, extending his hand with the kind of earnest enthusiasm that made Nze feel like he was being offered a contract for his soul. "But everyone calls me Seun."

It was at that precise moment that the scratch on Nze's ankle decided to have a conversation with his brain, and suddenly the comfortable fortress of his "it was all a dream" theory began to crumble like a cookie in hot coffee. Because there it was – an angry red line that looked suspiciously like it had been drawn by something with claws that definitely weren't standard issue at the campus bookstore.

And then, like a Netflix series auto-playing the next episode, the memories started streaming in: Arthur – Bee's brother, or whatever Oakwood called their leader – transforming into a grey leopard. Massive. Graceful. Terrifying. Nze remembered the ripple of fur and the way his eyes glowed under the misty moonlight. Others had followed suit, shifting effortlessly into creatures of raw power. The kind of predators you wouldn't find in a zoo because no cage could hold them. The entire Skyfall faction, shifting and changing under the fog like some sort of supernatural flash mob.

Then there was the war – the image of Nyamekye floated to the surface of his memory, her face a roadmap of scars that told stories he wasn't sure he wanted to read, commanding her jaguar forces like a general who had seen too many battles and somehow lived to tell about them all.

"Oh man, sorry about the morning breath," Nze managed to say, his mind still spinning. "Make yourself at home. I just need to..."

His voice trailed off as he grabbed his phone, and the numbers 10:32 AM stared back at him with the same judgment as his mother when he tried to convince her that Gala and La Casera could be breakfast food.

The realization hit him like a wet towel to the face: he had class. He definitely had class. Professor Ajayi's Nok Literature seminar, to be specific – the one where attendance was treated with the same seriousness as a heart attack.

"Holy..." Nze barely stopped himself from finishing that thought, suddenly very aware of Seun's presence and the fact that first impressions typically shouldn't include creative profanity. His new roommate was already arranging his belongings with the methodical precision of someone who probably color-coded their class notes, while Nze stood there in his boxers and hoodie, looking like the "before" picture in a life choices advertisement.

The scratch on his ankle throbbed again, as if to remind him that missing class might actually be the least of his problems. Because somewhere out there, in the supposedly normal town of St. Leo, there were people who could turn into big cats at will, and at least one of them had apparently decided to use him as a scratching post. And yet, somehow, the thought of missing Professor Ajayi's lecture on Benin Literature seemed equally terrifying.

Nze's phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Iza.

"Wtf are you, dude? Lecture started almost 30 minutes ago! Get here before attendance"

Nze moved through his bathroom ritual with the kind of desperate efficiency usually reserved for Olympic athletes, except instead of going for gold, he was just trying not to fail Nok Literature.

The shower became less about hygiene and more about achieving minimum socially acceptable dampness.

Twenty minutes later—or what felt like both an eternity and barely thirty seconds in panic mode—Nze was attempting what could generously be called a tactical entry into the lecture hall. His approach had all the grace of a ninja, if said ninja wore squeaky sneakers and lugged a backpack that insisted on snagging every chair, desk, and doorframe on the way in.

Iza, bless her strategic mind, had positioned herself at the back of the hall like a chess master planning fifteen moves ahead. The attendance sheet was making its long journey through the rows of students, each signature bringing it closer to their position, and by extension, closer to exposing Nze's tardiness.

As Nze slid into the seat beside Iza, awkward as a baby giraffe taking its first steps, she didn't even glance at him. Instead, her hand moved with practiced precision, reaching into her bag and pulling out what might as well have been the Holy Grail: a pack of Orbit gum. She handed it to him without a word—a quiet gesture that said, I've got your back, but also, your breath could probably raise the dead.

The gum exchanged hands like contraband in a prison movie. Except, instead of cigarettes, it was minty salvation. Because that's the thing about real friendship in university—it's not always about deep conversations or years of history. Sometimes, it's just about having someone who remembers to bring gum when your breath smells like regret. 

Up at the front, Professor Ajayi droned on about Macaulay's notes on the Deltan River and its wildlife. But Nze's mind wandered. What would Macaulay have thought if, instead of simple animals, he'd come across shapeshifting leopards in those woods? Maybe that's why he stuck to ordinary living—fewer chances of running into supernatural cat people. 

The scratch on Nze's ankle itched. The gum was minty, but it couldn't quite erase the taste of whatever had died in his mouth last night. Attendance was creeping closer, and his name would be called any moment. 

Still, at least he was here. Present, barely on time, and slightly more prepared to deal with the universe's latest curveball. 

Although, judging by the way Iza was side-eyeing him, she definitely had questions about last night. Questions he wasn't sure he could answer without sounding like he'd completely lost it.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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