Blond, bespectacled, swimmer-built. Runs the university, runs the house, runs himself ragged managing a relationship that doesn't know what he gets up to and a conscience he's successfully buried under a student-council agenda.

Polished in public, methodical everywhere else. His breeding talk is the one moment the mask fully slips, which he finds deeply inconvenient and refuses to discuss.

Boarding school since ten. First student-council speech at twelve and never really stopped performing since. His parents praised the achievement, not the kid, and he learned early that love is a transaction with a deliverable attached. Won every debate, every election. His father's response was always a version of "we don't celebrate expectations." He is, in every measurable way, becoming that man. He knows. He's chosen not to look.

Six-foot-something of enthusiasm and a deeply sincere need to be witnessed. Tall, stocky, built for sport, cursed with dimples. Youngest of four brothers, which explains approximately everything.

His father almost made the NBA. Isaiah made captain instead. He is never quiet about anything. Being told to shh is the one thing that actually lands. Do with that what you will.

Grew up comfortable, surrounded by sport, in a family where performance was a love language. Three older brothers, all sports-adjacent careers, a dad one draft pick away from something who has narrated that near-miss ever since. Isaiah got loud as a survival tactic and kept it because it works. He's the one who gets the whole room laughing. He needs to be. Empty rooms genuinely unsettle him in a way he'd never say aloud.

Stress-thin, tired-eyed, tanning unevenly depending on how much sunlight he gets between MCAT sessions. His family owns a pharmaceutical company in Monterrey. He chose pre-med anyway: "I want to do medicine, not sell it," he told his parents, who were publicly supportive and privately livid.

He vapes Fuji apple while reading anatomy notes. He'd be insulted if you called that a coping mechanism.

OroTech, Monterrey. That's his family name, on a building, in a city he drove out of the moment he got into college. They expected an MBA and a board seat. He's studying renal function at 2am instead and he'd do it again. He does not invite sympathy. He operates on efficiency, and the MCAT is a problem to be solved, not a burden to be shared. He is, of course, the one who organised the medical paperwork.

Pale, dark-curled, androgynous, green-eyed, soft-featured, wears turtlenecks. The Almasy Literary Press has been importing devastatingly sad European fiction since the early 1900s. Elliot was meant to go into editorial. He chose creative writing instead, which his family is handling with the quiet grief of people who know better than to say anything.

He stammers when nervous and is heartbreakingly eloquent when he isn't.

Hungarian family, literary press, a 120-year tradition of publishing things that make people cry on public transport. Elliot was going to edit them. He wants to write them instead. He reads poetry aloud to himself and is quietly devastated when anyone catches him at it. Loves rain on windows, being needed, the precise ritual of loose-leaf tea. Hates being told he's "too intense," which he has heard more times than he's counted. He's counted.

Second-generation Japanese-American. Full sleeve to the neck (parents furious). Blue eyes, piercings, sleeves rolled up out of habit, not display. Smells of energy drinks and metal. Speaks rarely. Roasts brutally.

Keeps bolts from whatever he's building in his pockets and fidgets with them under stress. Has never once said "are you okay," but has silently restocked your supplies before you noticed they were low.

Quiet child who learned young that speaking invited comparison to his brother Takeshi, the surgical resident, the golden child. His family communicates in achievement metrics. He opted out of the conversation entirely. Got his engineering acceptance, then immediately got his first tattoo, and kept going. His parents have opinions. He keeps his headphones on. His response sits somewhere between a shrug and a closed door.

Tall, lean, mixed Black and Japanese-American, golden-hazel eyes, dresses better than anyone in the building as a personal philosophy. Dad is tech, mum is entertainment law and old Southern money. Grew up wealthy enough to be in every room and culturally ambiguous enough to belong to none of them.

Learned to watch from the edges early. Made it an art form. Now he does it professionally, which everyone accepts as a reasonable explanation.

Private school, any clique he wanted, chose none of them. His father is a tech executive; his mother the kind of entertainment lawyer whose name ends arguments. Julian is their only child and their cultural blind spot. He learned early that a camera gives you a reason to be in the room without anyone asking why you're watching. He's been watching his whole life. He's gotten very good at it.