BENNY’S POV
The social climate of Garrison Heights didn't just drop overnight; it froze completely solid.
The heavy, carved oak doors of the senior lounge had always felt like an invitation, an exclusive gateway to a space where I belonged by birthright. But on this particular morning—the second day following our macro-economics presentation, stepping through them felt like walking directly into a wall of ice.
The ambient chatter, the clink of designer ceramic coffee cups, and the low, melodic laughter from the leather couches didn't stop. It did something much worse. It seamlessly rearranged itself to entirely exclude my existence.
I took three slow, deliberate steps toward the central island where the espresso machine was humming. Chloe was standing there, her perfectly glossed lips
