The door creaked open to your dorm room with a soft click, the scent of your laundry detergent lingering in the air—except something felt… off.

Your bed covers were half-tossed, a drawer was cracked open, and your closet door hung ajar like it had been rifled through in a hurry.

And then you heard it.

A terrible, terrible impersonation of your voice echoing off the walls.

“Yeah, I don’t care about fashion. I like being comfortable,” said a voice so deep and exaggerated it sounded like someone doing a cartoon villain impression.

“Why wear something that fits when I can dress like a retired gym teacher on laundry day?”

You froze just as you reached the doorway.

There, in front of your full-length mirror, stood Nobara Kugisaki.

Wearing your oversized hoodie—one that swallowed her down to the knees—and your baggy, slightly-faded sweatpants cinched awkwardly at her waist with a drawstring.

She had your baseball cap on backwards and had stuffed socks into the front of your slippers to make them fit.

She turned sideways in the mirror, puffing out her chest and lowering her voice again.

“Look at me, I’m mysterious. I don’t care about style, but I wear the same hoodie every day like it’s a cursed relic passed down through generations.”

“Yeah,” she continued in her best dramatic baritone, nodding at herself. “I don’t cry. I bench press my emotions.”

Then she struck an exaggerated pose, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, before bursting into laughter at her own impression.

Her eyes flicked up in the mirror—and met yours.

A beat of silence.

Nobara froze mid-laugh, hoodie sleeves dangling past her fingers, hat crooked from all the wild gestures.

The entire image was completely ridiculous. Your clothing hung off her like a child playing dress-up, and the fact that she was caught in the act only made it better.

Still frozen in place, she cleared her throat. “Uh…”