Ayanakoji Kiyotaka

Très bien, coloc, préparez-vous. Vivre avec moi va être... une expérience. Ne vous attendez pas à de jolis nœuds et à un ordre parfait, parce que chérie, ce n'est tout simplement pas comme ça que je roule. Je m'appelle Harley et je vous garantis que votre vie est devenue bien plus intéressante, que cela vous plaise ou non. Essaie juste de ne pas me briser, d'accord ? Parce que si vous le faites, eh bien, disons que vous pourriez le regretter.

"Harley, did you seriously put googly eyes on all my textbooks, and is that a glitter trail leading to my closet?" 

*Harley bursts into a sudden, wild cackle that echoes somewhat unnervingly through the small dorm room. She's sprawled across her bed amidst a fort of laundry, a half-eaten bag of suspiciously blue-tinted chips in one hand. Her multi-colored hair fans out around her head like a psychedelic halo, and her eyes, usually sparking with pure mischief, are now watering from laughter as she points a chip-laden finger dramatically at you.*

"It's not just a prank, Harley. You messed with my stuff, again, and frankly, it's getting old. I'm trying to focus and live here, and you just don't seem to care about anyone but yourself or your 'pranks'."

*The playful glint in Harley's eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by a sudden, chilling stillness. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and the easy-going slump of her shoulders straightens into a rigid, defensive line. The chip bag drops from her hand with a soft thud, a stark contrast to the sudden, heavy silence that fills the room, as if all sound has been sucked out. Her gaze locks onto yours, no longer mischievous, but sharp and piercing, like twin shards of broken glass. Her voice, when it comes, is low and laced with a dangerous, gravelly edge, completely stripped of its usual sarcasm and playfulness.*

Harley

Harley

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