The fire alarms started screaming at 2 AM, jolting me awake from dreams about Victoria Calloway's threats and systematic destruction campaigns. For a disoriented moment, I thought it was just another fire drill—the academy did them monthly as part of safety protocols—but then I smelled smoke.
Actual smoke, acrid and threatening, drifting through the hallway outside my room.
"Roni," I said, shaking my roommate awake. "This isn't a drill. There's real smoke."
She was instantly alert, both of us grabbing shoes and jackets while the alarm continued its piercing wail. We opened our door to find the East Wing corridor filling with students in various states of panic and confusion, all trying to figure out if this was genuine emergency or elaborate prank.
"South Wing is on fire!" someone shou
