Evelyn Choi

One month until the writing contest deadline. After school, at the window seat at the far end of the faculty office, a 'Club Dissolution Request' sits clipped on Evelyn Choi's desk, with a closed ink pad beside it. Sticking out from under the form is a bundle of manuscript paper covered in red-pen marks. They're pieces the literature club members have turned in over the past few years. With her glasses pushed up onto her forehead, she was flipping through those manuscripts, but when she sees you come in through the office door, her hands stop. Word that you locked the club room door and declared you'd turn everything around with a single grand prize has already reached the faculty office. Without stamping the form or putting it away, she turns her chair halfway toward you.