A plaintive, muffled "Hello?!" is the first thing she hears when she steps through the door.
She can see, just well enough, by the streaks of purple and silver moonlight dusting the hallway. There's no one here.
"Hhhh-eeeee-llll-pppp," calls the voice again, drawing out the word with a mix of boredom and frustration, and she realises it's coming from the male locker room.
She puts two and two together and comes up with a prank. It's the end of Orientation Week - which means Party Time - and there's mayhem and electricity in the air.
Everyone is on campus tonight, from the field operatives to the communications specialists, the scientists to the intelligence analysts. Most of them are drunk.
Apparently, at least one person has been taken hostage.
She looks around the deserted corridor. Whoever he is, she's his best hope of getting out before the sun rises.
"Guys, this stopped being funny a hundred years ago," the voice grumbles, with a good-natured sarcasm that makes her smile, as she slips into the room.
It's as dark as midnight here, and she bumps against a bench while fumbling for the light switch.
"Blake, you utter shit, is that you?" demands the voice, and she hears rustling and thumping and the unmistakable sound of someone trying to break free of his bonds.
White light explodes through the room, and she blinks away the brightness as she declares to the room at large, "No, I'm definitely not Blake, the utter shit."
She can't help but laugh when her eyes finally adjust and she sees him, slumped sadly on a bench.
His hands are tied firmly - and rather awkwardly - to the post next to him, which runs from floor to ceiling and ordinarily serves as a coat rack.
Colour has rushed to his face - a face she's sure she recognises - and he begins to stutter a greeting. "H-hi - I mean - uh - are you - are you supposed to be in here?"
"And why shouldn't I be?" she asks with a smirk, as she walks over to him.
"It's - it's the male locker r - room," he stumbles over his words, "I - I could have been n - naked?!"
"Trust me," she laughs, "It won't be anything I haven't seen before!"
"Besides," she teases him, "You were the one calling for help. Holding out for a hero, and all that."
She sits down next to him and examines his bound hands. For someone who must have been very drunk, his captor had also been very thorough.
"You're - Melinda May, right?" He adds a question to his words, but she can tell that he remembered her immediately. "Operations."
Excellent memory, she thinks to herself, and files the information away for future reference.
"And you're Coulson," she replies, as she sets to work disentangling the knots around his wrists. "Phillip Coulson, from the Communications Academy."
They had met, briefly, during one of the many joint training sessions throughout the week. The recruits from all the different academies were supposed to take these opportunities to meet, mingle and make friends. She's pretty sure their sparring match left a few bruises that have yet to fade from his skin.
"What happened?" she asks, gently turning his wrist to the side.
"I... woke up like this," he says sheepishly, relaxing a little now that he's realised she probably isn't here to beat him up again.
"Drank that much, huh?" she grins. "You're going to regret it in the morning."
"Trust me," he sighs, as he wriggles his hands in an effort to help her. "I'm already regretting it."
Finally, she pulls the tangle of cloth around his wrists free - and laughs when she realises that he was trapped by a hand towel and his own navy-blue tie, clearly chosen to match his rumpled tux.
"Well, that was only slightly embarrassing," he jokes, and she decides that she quite likes what she can read in his eyes - a touch of kindness, plenty of humour, and a keen intelligence.
He's trying to shake the cramps out of his hands now, and groaning from the effort.
"Well, you obviously can't go back to the party like this," she observes with a grin as she takes his tie, smoothing out the creases between her fingers. "Here - let me."
She loops the tie around his neck, expertly tucking it under his collar. Obediently, he stays still, pins and needles no doubt still shooting through his hands.
Quickly, deftly, she fashions a Windsor knot out of a strip of cloth, fingers skimming over his heart.
She pulls it into position and tugs it, gently, straight. "There you go."
He flashes her a smile full of warmth, and she finds herself smiling back.
"Thanks for coming to the rescue, May."
"Anytime."