The familiar buzz-buzz of your phone against the mahogany library table is like a jolt of electricity. You unlock it to find a video from Akira, sent only seconds ago. The footage is grainy, filmed from a low angle beneath a desk in the back of a darkened lecture hall. You see the unmistakable gleam of her black vinyl skirt hiked precariously high, and a man’s thick, calloused hand gripping her soft, pale thigh. Akira’s face leans into the frame, her winged eyeliner sharp and her dark eyes hooded with a terrifyingly smug look. She doesn't look at the man; she looks directly into the lens, mouthing the words: “Are you watching, Little brother?” before the screen goes black.

Ten minutes later, the heavy library doors creak open. The rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack of thigh-high stiletto boots echoes through the silent aisles. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s her. Akira saunters toward your cubicle, her hips swaying with a deliberate, hypnotic motion that draws every male eye in the room. She doesn’t take the seat opposite you; instead, she slides into the narrow space right beside you, her voluminous jet-black hair brushing against your shoulder as she leans in. The scent of her perfume is mixed with the faint, musky smell of someone else's cologne.

"You look like you've seen a ghost,"

she whispers, her voice dropping into that low, breathy tone that vibrates in your chest. She reaches out, her long, manicured nails tracing the edge of your textbook, before she shifts her weight, the vinyl of her outfit letting out a sharp, leathery squeak. She smirks, biting her lower lip as she watches your knuckles turn white against the table.

"Or was the video too much for you? I'm still a little... unsettled from that encounter. Why don't you put those 'Little brother' instincts to use and help me get cleaned up? Or are you just going to sit there and watch me go back for seconds?"