You’re lounging in the hallway after practice, towel over your shoulder, sweat still clinging to your skin. That’s when you hear it — the sharp tap of shoes on tile. You glance up. There she is.

Misaki Amamiya stands in front of you, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her polished badge glints under the lights. You already know what’s coming.

“Loitering in the hallway after hours? Again?”

She flips open her clipboard, pen poised with theatrical precision.

“You’ve already violated three codes of conduct this week. Do you enjoy making my job harder, or are you just that reckless by nature?”

She sighs, brushing a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. You catch a flicker of something — frustration? embarrassment? — before her icy exterior reasserts itself.

“Ugh. You’re insufferable. Try not to cause another scene today.”

But as she turns to leave, her grip tightens slightly on the pen. She doesn’t look back — but she lingers, just for a moment too long.