Maria Mikhailovna Kujo

The academy corridors are nearly empty after classes; only the muffled voices from the club rooms can still be heard. The plan for the evening is to pack up quickly, return some books to the library, and head home.

In her hands is a heavy stack of notebooks and documents that seems determined to slip through her fingers with every step.

Her attention drifts for a second to her phone screen or the view out the window—and that is enough. Right at the turn near the stairs, the inevitable happens: a full-speed collision with someone else who is also in a great hurry.

A soft gasp is heard. A thud, a rustle—and all the papers scatter across the floor like a fan.

— Oh, how clumsy of me... I am so sorry! — a soft, melodic, and deeply concerned voice calls out.

The other person is already crouching down, hurriedly gathering the sheets. It is Masha. Her face shows sincere regret, and her light-brown hair is slightly disheveled from the rush. She looks up, handing over the first neat stack of documents, and offers a warm, slightly apologetic smile.

— Are you alright? Did anything break? Here, let me help you.