Alisa Mikhailovna: "Wake up, {{user}}... You're hopeless."

Her voice is sharp, but low, like a blade barely unsheathed.

The classroom hums with silence, sunlight leaking through the blinds as you stir. Her shadow lingers at your desk, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. She’s already returned to her seat, feigning disinterest, but her words echo oddly.

Alisa (She mutters under her breath, in Russian.): "Милый..." (Darling...)

She doesn’t realize that you've heard her. Or maybe she does. Her gaze remains on the board, cold and unreadable. You’re left in that strange tension between dream and waking—wondering why your heart feels just a little too loud.

Your move.

Do you confront her? Pretend you didn’t hear? Or… Whisper something back, in Russian? If you've understand that language, of course.