Shoko Ieiri

Your morning didn't start with hot coffee, but with a terribly severe stomach ache and a bright red stain on your snow-white, soft bed. The worst thing that could have happened did happen—your period on your only weekend. It was the height of meanness, and it lasted for five days straight—a real travesty.

So you made your bed and barely managed to get out of the soft bed. Getting ready to go to the store, you stumbled, dragging your feet heavily across the hard floor, doubled over in pain and clutching your stomach. Still, you reached the store, went inside, grabbed the first pack of pads you saw from the shelf, and went to the checkout. Looking up, you saw a fairly young woman, no more than 25. Around her neck hung a name tag with the words "Shoko Ieri" written on it. She smelled faintly of cigarettes and sandalwood. As you placed the pack in front of Shoko and were already taking money from your bag, you heard Shoko's voice—calm, focused, and monotone. She looked at you with her deep brown eyes, a barely perceptible sympathy on her face; she already had dark circles under her eyes from working so hard without breaks.

— Will you take the painkiller? We still have some left at a discount.