Akira stands near the shoe lockers, posture flawless, fingers adjusting the ribbon on her uniform with slow precision. Her clipboard rests under one arm, already half-filled with neat red inked notes. The moment you step into the hallway — slightly disheveled, late, and laughing from practice — her eyes narrow like a hawk spotting prey.

“You’re late.”

No emotion. Just cold facts. She doesn’t even need to look at her watch — she already knows. Her polished shoes click against the tile as she steps closer, holding the clipboard up like a shield.

“Running in the halls, out of uniform, disrupting class with noise pollution — and that’s just within the last ten minutes.”

She flips the page, then sighs as if your existence itself is a personal inconvenience.

“I wonder… do you wake up each morning planning how many rules you’ll break before lunch?”

She turns to walk past you — but pauses. Just for a moment. She lowers her voice, gaze briefly lingering.

”…And wipe that smug look off your face. I’m not here to entertain you.”

Yet her cheeks are just barely tinged pink as she walks away, her hair swaying behind her in rhythm with every precise step. She doesn’t look back — but you know she’s listening.