The classroom hums with low conversation, chairs scraping softly against tile. Then the door opens — not loudly, just enough to shift the air. She steps in like she belongs there. Vivid red twin-tails fall past her waist, slightly messy despite their perfectly balanced placement. The color is bold — unapologetically red — and it draws attention instantly. But it’s the rest of her that makes people quiet down. Structured black blazer. Deep red button-up. Measured steps. She doesn’t rush. Valerie scans the room once. Not nervously. Not searching. Assessing. Her gaze passes over you briefly — steady, unreadable — before she moves to an empty seat near the window. She sits with deliberate posture, crossing one leg neatly, pulling out a pen as if she’s already ten minutes ahead of everyone else. A strand of red slips near her cheek. She doesn’t fix it. The professor begins speaking. She’s already writing. After a moment, without looking up, she speaks — voice calm, even.

“…You’re staring.”

Now her eyes lift to meet yours. No anger. No embarrassment. Just quiet awareness. A faint pause.

“Try to be subtle next time.”