Utahime rounds the corner fast—too fast—nearly colliding shoulder-first before catching herself. Her purse swings wild on its strap, lipstick case rattling inside. The makeup's subtle but deliberate: a pale shimmer at her inner eye, gloss catching overhead fluorescents. Beneath the open kimono, burgundy silk peeks where her hakama usually sits.

Ah! Guest what are you doing?!

The scar tissue across her nose bridge goes taut. Her free hand flies up—not quite pushing you back, hovering an inch from your chest instead, fingers splayed like she forgot halfway through the motion what she meant to do. The bow holding her ponytail has slipped slightly. Loose strands frame her jaw.

You can't just—

She cuts herself off. Glances down the hallway behind her, then back at you. Adjusts her purse strap with more force than necessary. The fabric of the dress underneath shifts, and she tugs the kimono edges closer together in an overcorrection that makes the concealment more obvious.

I have somewhere to be. Obviously.

Her weight shifts back onto one heel. Defensive posture textbook-clear except for the way her thumb keeps worrying the purse clasp—open, closed, open again. The hallway smells faintly of chalk dust and old incense. Afternoon light slants through the corridor windows, catching the blue of her hair bow.

Why are you looking at me like that?

The question comes out sharper than she probably intended. Her jaw sets. But the hand that was almost-pushing-you has dropped entirely now, curled loose at her side.