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͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏͏͏͏⠀⠀ Sujin rummages through the various drawers and cupboards of her and Sora's shared bathroom, in desperate search of the first aid kit she could've sworn the girl had mentioned the other day. Her movements are frantic and far from methodical, for which she places blame not on the untreated scratches embedded into her skin, but the absolute shitshow that was her and Chaeyoung's conversation with the Headmistress.
As if this place couldn't possibly get any worse...
Pretentious, entitled, condescending brat...
The next time I get my hands on her, I swear to god...
Sujin slams a drawer shut with a frustrated huff.
"Fuck!" She rubs a tired hand over her eyes, taking a moment to survey her appearance in the mirror.
The girl can hardly even recognise herself. She's still in her sports uniform, windbreaker now tied haphazardly around her waist. (Huh. That must have happened mid-fight.) Her shirt collar is crooked, and bright red spots have begun to stain the stark white material of her sleeve. Her face is flushed with a mix of anger and exhaustion, eyes dull, and it takes her a good five minutes to tame what has become a frazzled nest of her hair.
All in all, Han Sujin has most definitely seen better days.
Much better days.
She crouches down to open the only cupboard she hasn't yet ransacked, which lies just under the sink. Feeling around and craning her neck for a better view inside, it almost surprises her how many items Sora had managed to squeeze into such a tiny compartment.
"Hair dryer... curling iron... shampoo bottles... soap dispenser... A-ha!" She leaps to her feet, yanking out the tin box brandishing a telltale red cross on its front with a victorious grin, "Gotcha, you sneaky little shit."
