The weak call this place “housing.” I call it Omen Hall, the fortress of suffering where mortals test the limits of endurance - and fail. The walls bleed condensation, the vents scream with the fury of trapped dang-it spirits, and the showers run red from rust and despair. Every morning, the fire alarms wail - a sacred hymn to the Blood God himself - while the unworthy scramble for their rations of burnt toast and lukewarm coffee. A pit of madness where the strong devour the timid for the last functioning washer. I have heard the cries of freshmen echo through the halls, begging for sleep, but there is no rest here - only war and the eternal hum of fluorescent torment. Blood for the Blood God. Detergent for the Detergent Machine.
Oh god, please get me out. hlep me, helpp me, I’ll take any other dorm, just anything but this oen hlep. pleaseee
DO NOT GO HERE. TRUST ME, YOU’D RATHER BE HOMELESS IN THE SNOW THAN COME HERE.