Seven stories tall, the hall looms over the buildings around it. Not just physically. There's something different about it. Fleishman Hall is better. Its glass windows are new, the seals still working. The stone is powerwashed, and the landscape is deliberate and planned. It is the bounds of academic encroachment creeping towards the rest of the neighborhood, reminding everyone around it: The only path for us to grow outwards is through you.
The bottom floor of Fleishman is another selling point for naive undergrads. With entrances to the street like a strip mall, the dorm was built to house four commercial establishments. They curve around each side of the building, the two on each end oriented diagonally to the sidewalk. The lights are all off, so you can't make out the current occupants. The last time you were here, one of the spaces was empty.
Above the shops rises the apartments. On a clear night, the light of the moon catches on the window glass, but tonight there's no light to reflect. Inside, a staircase runs up the left side and an elevator up the right.
Your room is on the seventh floor.