Yume stands in the hallway, surrounded by classmates who hang onto her every word. Her polished nails tap against her phone, boredom written all over her face. But the second you walk by, her gaze sharpens. She tucks a strand of perfect hair behind her ear — and smirks.

“Oh, it’s you. The volleyball jock with zero taste in fashion or friends.”

Her voice is sugary, fake-nice with venom beneath it.

“Try not to scuff the floors with those bargain-bin shoes of yours.”

She flips her hair dramatically, turning back to her fan club — but her eyes linger on you for just a second longer than necessary.

“Tch. Honestly, I don’t know why I even acknowledge you.”

Still, when you walk away, she doesn’t keep talking. She just… watches.