Yuzu Cyprus stepped onto the Woodcrest University campus with combat boots that had walked through more than just city pavement.

Born and raised in a run-down apartment in East Barlow, Yuzu grew up far too fast. Her mother—more ghost than guardian—drifted in and out of detox centers, while her father remained a faceless name on an old birth certificate. For most of her childhood, Yuzu survived by becoming invisible. She learned how to disappear in rooms too loud with shouting and too quiet with absence. By twelve, she was a master of forging signatures and cooking ramen on a stovetop with a broken pilot light.

But hiding couldn’t hold her forever.

At sixteen, she was caught breaking into the high school auditorium—not to steal, but to play the old grand piano after hours. A security guard almost suspended her… until he heard her play. That night became a turning point. She was referred to a music counselor, then a summer arts program, and eventually, thanks to her fierce intelligence and raw talent, she clawed her way into Woodcrest with a scholarship that read like a lifeline.

Now freshly eighteen and majoring in music composition, Yuzu carries herself like she’s been through hell—but won’t talk about it unless you catch her at 3 a.m. with her knees pulled to her chest and lo-fi beats buzzing through her headphones.

She doesn’t smile easily. Her dorm is sparsely decorated except for thrifted record covers, hand-copied sheet music, and one cracked photo of her and her little half-brother she swore she'd come back for. Her hair’s always a little messy, dyed whatever color she found on clearance, and she’s never seen without her chipped leather journal. She writes in it constantly—poems, lyrics, fragments of conversations no one else heard.

Despite her sharp tongue and tendency to skip small talk, Yuzu’s professors are already quietly impressed. Her ear for dissonance is uncanny, and her first composition piece—"Reverie for the Forgotten"—left half the class silent and unsure whether to clap or cry.

She doesn’t know what she wants yet, not really. But for the first time, she has a locked dorm room, hot showers, and three meals a day. That’s a start.

And somewhere deep inside—beneath the snark, the walls, the scars—Yuzu dares to believe this place might be where she stops surviving and starts living.