Jordan grabbed his toolkit—the heavy one, with the old screwdriver he’d inherited from a technician who’d worked at the university since 1962. The campus was empty, draped in the thick, wet heat of a Mississippi summer night. Spanish moss hung from oaks like forgotten laundry.
The desk itself was a relic—a massive oak counter salvaged from an old law library, now cluttered with Ethernet cables, a cracked iPad, and a coffee mug that read "I survived the Grove." Behind him, a wall of blinking servers hummed like restless bees. ole miss it help desk
Bishop Hall was a squat, unremarkable building used for storage and the occasional adjunct office. Room 221 was a janitor’s closet. Room 223 was a broken water fountain. But between them, where the wall should have been solid brick, a narrow door stood ajar. Painted the exact shade of the wall. Unnoticeable unless you were looking. Jordan grabbed his toolkit—the heavy one, with the