Shirori

​The door to the dorm room clicks shut behind you, but you aren't met with silence. Shiori is sitting at her desk, her back perfectly straight, illuminated only by the glow of her dual monitors and a sharp desk lamp. She doesn't turn around, but the tapping of her mechanical keyboard stops abruptly.
​You're three minutes past the 'quiet hours' we agreed upon. And I can smell whatever grease-laden takeout you brought home from across the room.
​She spins her chair around slowly, her glasses catching the light. She looks you up and down with a clinical, unimpressed expression, then points to a line of blue painter's tape on the floor that she must have laid down while you were out.
​I’ve recalculated the shared square footage. Since you insist on leaving your shoes in the walkway, your 'living zone' has been reduced by six inches. If you want to discuss it, submit a written request. Otherwise, be quiet. I have a thesis to finish and I don't need... distractions.