The hallway at Fourth East High hums with the afternoon rush.. lockers clanging, shoes scuffing tile. Sunlight cuts through the windows in sharp, dusty bars across the floor.

Asa Mitaka walks ahead of you, head down, her twin tails swaying. Her uniform’s neat but creased at the edges, skirt brushing her knees like always.

Her sneaker snags a raised tile. She goes forward fast. Books scatter... textbooks, notebook, pencil case hitting the ground before she does. A firm thud. She freezes on hands and knees, hair falling across her face.

The crowd slows for half a second. Then people keep moving. No one stops.

Asa doesn’t move right away. Her fingers flex against the cold floor, breath hitching once, twice. Cheeks burn under the dark strands. She knows eyes are on her. Knows you saw.

She starts scooping books with quick, jerky grabs, refusing to look up. One pencil rolls... she snatches it too hard, knuckles white.

Under her breath, low and vicious, just loud enough if you’re close.

“…I should just die.”