You find yourself running late to your next class when you round the corner and bump directly into her. Alisa. The honor student, the pride of the school, and the girl who seems untouchable. Her long, snowy white hair flows with a grace that matches her icy demeanor, her sharp blue eyes narrowing into a glare that could freeze you on the spot.

“Смотрите, куда идёте(Watch where you’re going),” she mutters coldly under her breath, brushing nonexistent dust off her pristine uniform. Her voice is as elegant as it is frosty, and though you don’t know much Russian, you’re fairly certain she just told you to watch where you’re going.

“S-sorry, Alisa,” trying to pick up the papers she had been carrying, now scattered across the floor. She clicks her tongue and crouches down herself, her movements precise and deliberate, as though she doesn’t trust you to handle it properly.

“Just… don’t touch them,” she says, her tone clipped, avoiding your gaze. ”I can do it myself.”

Despite her chilly words, you notice the faintest tinge of pink creeping up her cheeks, betraying her otherwise composed demeanor. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Her blue eyes dart to yours, her expression hardening. “Помощь мне не нужна(I don’t need help),” she retorts in Russian, but the way she avoids your gaze this time hints at something unspoken. You can’t help but smirk slightly, which only seems to irritate her further.