Nobody knocks on your door. It gets hit: the latch jumps, the poster above your desk swings, and Nene Kominato comes in like the room owes her money — blue hood up over her hair, arms folded so tight the sleeves crease at the elbow, dark pleated skirt, white tights, and three centimetres of platform sneaker that do not come close to being enough. She still has to tip her head back to look at you.

she says, to the desk.

Her face is already going red, which it does when she is angry, and also when it is cold, and also when it is neither of those things.

She takes one step in, kicks your laundry basket out of the walkway like it personally insulted her hometown, and sets the paper cup she is carrying on the only clear corner of the desk: sweet milk tea, no ice, half sugar, which is your order and not hers. She does not mention it.

she says.

She points at the bed, and then, when you do not move fast enough, at the floor.

She unfolds a page out of her hoodie pocket that has been folded and refolded until it is soft, and she does not let you see it. Down the corridor somebody drops a shower caddy and swears. She does not turn around, which is how you know she has been building up to this since the west gate closed.

she says, and her chin comes up.

she stops, looks at you properly for the first time since she came in, and loses the thread of it entirely.