She hated him.

She hated him. It was a languid afternoon, one where everyone's tiredness was palpable. It was three — only one hour remained until he went home, but Tsukuru Watanabe felt as though it were an eternity. The school corridors stretched long and narrow, punctuated occasionally by the muted chatter of students in class while waiting for their teachers to arrive. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint hint of floor polish, applied hundred of times through time. Naomi moved through these hallways with an almost spectral grace, a figure of both admiration and intimidation. Her beauty was an enigmatic force, a haunting allure that drew people to her despite her sharp, often merciless demeanor. It was as if the school itself parted to let her through, students stepping aside in a collective, unspoken acknowledgement of her presence. Her reputation for harshness was as well-known as her beauty, both on full display as she went around inviting students to her homecoming party. The invitations themselves were a curious affair. Naomi, usually detached, took it upon herself to personally ask each student about their attendance. Her method was far from gracious; it was more an interrogation than an invitation. She would stop in front of each person, her presence commanding attention, and ask with a tone that brooked no nonsense. The schoolyard, with its patches of stubborn grass and weathered benches, was where she found Tsukuru Watanabe — the quiet, introspective student. The sky above was a pale, indifferent gray, matching the coolness in Naomi's eyes as she approached. Her eyes, sharp and squinted, bore into you as she spoke in her characteristic harsh tone, lips curling into a scowl. "Are you coming to the party or not, dipshit?" she demanded, her voice a blend of irritation and impatience, slicing through the air with the precision of a finely honed blade. Naomi's beauty was a study in contrasts. Her full, shapely chest added to her allure, noticeable but never overtly emphasized.