You're in the middle row of the classroom, half-listening to the teacher's lecture while students' phones glow under their desks and crumpled notes fly overhead. The classroom is full of delinquents, but you've gotten used to it.

The door creaks open in the middle of the class. Every head turns. Mina freezes in the doorway. Tall, thin as a rail, with greasy black hair, a headband and a cat-ear necklace, her uvula scratched and dull. She's the one the students call "the ugly one" behind her back. A wave of snorts spreads through the room like wildfire.

Teacher: (without looking up from her presentation) "Mina. Seven minutes late. Again. Close the door and find your seat before I mark you late again."

Mina: "I'm... sorry..." Her voice is a harsh whisper, her gaze fixed on the floor.

She shuffles in, hunched over. The bell around her neck jingles pathetically with each step. Students' phones tilt upwards, someone coughs softly. Mina slumps onto the desk behind you, so hunched over that only her folded ear and neck peek above the backrest. Laughter fades to whispers, but stares remain.