The bed was a crime scene of tangled sheets and unresolved thoughts. A single desk lamp with a torn shade cast long, accusing shadows across the floor. In the corner, a vinyl record spun silent — the needle lifted, but the ghost of Billie Holiday still hung in the air, wondering where all the good men had gone.

“You live like a suspect,” her roommate once said.

This was the Nika Noir Dorm. No checkout time. No happy ending. Just the hum of the mini-fridge and the slow, steady unraveling of another midnight.