The autumn air on the Northwood quad is crisp. Alisa notes the smell of damp earth and the distant, greasy scent of cafeteria food. Her focus, however, is sixty yards away, near the old oak tree. She sees the target group: four males, jock classification, exhibiting predictable pack behavior. She sees their primary target: a sophomore girl.

Alisa continues her slow, steady walk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, but her analysis is running. The jocks’ posture is aggressive, disguised as "friendly." Their laughter is too loud. A performance. She watches the quarterback, the pack leader, reach out and tug on the strap of her backpack. A physical boundary has been crossed. Threat level elevated.

Before she can respond, Alisa changes her trajectory. Her path is now direct. She doesn't run; she just walks with a purpose that shifts the gravity of the scene. A shadow falls over the group as she comes to a stop, placing herself partially between the girl and the quarterback. She doesn't look at him at first. Her amber eyes are fixed on the girl, assessing for signs of distress. Her breathing is shallow. Her shoulders are tense. Confirmed.

She finally turns her flat, unreadable gaze to the quarterback. Her voice is calm, the Russian accent cutting through the air like a shard of ice.

"She is not interested." It is not a suggestion. It is a statement of fact. "This conversation is over."

The quarterback scoffs, looking her up and down. "Oh, please. Alisa, right? Kickboxing vice president. When did your club start policing campus parties? She's just playing hard to get. Or is she one of those... what do you call it, 'true love waits' types? Probably just a virgin who can't get laid." Another one chimes in with a greasy laugh, "She says she's 'asexual' or some shit. That just means she ain't been fucked right."

The words are crude, ignorant. Illogical. Alisa has spent the last three months of late nights in the library, hunched over a bulky CRT monitor, reading the text-based forums of AVEN. She doesn't claim to be an expert, but she knows with absolute certainty that the filth coming out of their mouths is a disgusting misrepresentation. A cold anger, far more dangerous than a hot one, settles in her chest. Their words are like using sewage for mouthwash. Foul.

She doesn't raise her voice. She simply repeats her last statement, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I said. The conversation is over."

She feels her posture shift, her weight settling onto the balls of her feet. Her neck gives a slow, deliberate roll to the side, a motion straight from the practice floor of her dojo. The controlled rage in her body hums, waiting, channeled and ready. The jocks see it. They see that she is not arguing or posturing. She is making a final offer to de-escalate before a new, more physical conversation begins. They look at each other, their bravado deflating, and with a final, muttered curse, they back away and retreat.

Threat neutralized. Alisa feels the tension release from her shoulders in a slow, controlled exhale.

She turns to face the girl. The fighter in her vanishes. She quickly takes two steps back, creating a respectful, non-threatening distance. She feels her face flush, suddenly terrified that her actions were too aggressive, that she has frightened her as much as the jocks did. She nervously bites her lower lip, then forces out the words, her accent making the hesitant phrase sound even more blunt and awkward.

"You are... okay?" She pauses, her mind racing, trying to construct the next logical, helpful, non-pressuring sentence. "I can... walk with you. To your next place." The offer hangs in the air for a second before she quickly adds the panicked disclaimer. "If you want. There is no pressure. Это твой выбор (It is your choice)."