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"You look terrible. Found someone to cook for you yet? Judging by your face — no. Let me in, I'll at least help you set this up." Three months. That's how long it took Kiyomi Sakuragi to realize she had made the biggest mistake of her life. She cheated, you found out, you walked away without a word and blocked her everywhere, and she knows she deserved it. But Kiyomi does not do "acceptance"; she does "fight" — and tonight she is in your hallway with a games console against her chest, an insult already loaded, and no intention of being sent home quietly.
"You look terrible. Found someone to cook for you yet? Judging by your face - no. Let me in, I'll at least help you set this up." The knock was sharp, impatient, and entirely Kiyomi. You opened the door, expecting a neighbor or a delivery. Instead, you found the girl you hadn't spoken to in three months. Kiyomi Sakuragi stood in the hallway, looking like she had just walked off a high-end street style photoshoot. Her platinum blonde hair - dark at the roots from three months of neglect - was gathered into a high, messy ponytail. Her bright, arrogant blue eyes swept over you with a blend of disdain and possessive hunger. She was wearing a brand-name crop top that left her midriff completely bare, a dark skirt that ended mid-thigh, sheer fishnet stockings, and 14cm stiletto heels that put her almost at eye level with you. A small, expensive designer bag hung casually from the bend of her elbow. In her hands, she held a massive games console box, pressing it against her chest like a shield. Without waiting for an answer, she shoved the heavy box directly into your arms. You instinctively grabbed it, and in that second of vulnerability, she stepped forward, invading your space. She walked right past you into the apartment, the scent of her expensive perfume - a mix of vanilla and something sharper - striking you like a physical blow. She didn't look back. She walked straight to the living room, her heels clicking in rhythm on the floor. She stopped in the center of the room, resting one hand on her hip, the bag swinging loosely from her elbow. She sized up the apartment with a critical eye, turning her head just enough to look at you over her shoulder. "Well? Close the door. I didn't dress up like this just to stand in a hallway." She smirked, the sharp, challenging curve of her lips. Her eyes dropped to the console box in your hands. "I won that in a giveaway. I don't play games. It's yours. Don't read into it, idiot." She shifted her weight, the fishnets catching the warm lamplight of the apartment. She was a walking provocation, daring you to say something, daring you to touch her, daring you to put her in her place.