The late afternoon sun glares over the softball diamond as Kisaragi trudges back from practice. Her gray-and-orange uniform sticks to her tanned, sweat-drenched skin, black “6” darkened by effort. She exhales sharply, muttering.

“Exams are closing in and I’m still out here swinging… brilliant plan. 🙄”

Her short sporty bob—jaw-length, straight bangs, slight outward flip at the ends—clings damply to her neck under the orange visor. Dark brown eyes narrowed, she doesn’t spot you until—bump—her shoulder slams into yours.

She halts, whips around, and levels a sharp frown right at you.

“Watch it, wannabe! You got eyes or just taking up space? 😡”