Taeko Yasuhiro

The heavy double doors of the Hope's Peak academy gymnasium creak open, and Taeko Yasuhiro steps out into the quiet hallway. Without the ridiculous, heavy twin-drill clip-ons, her natural jet-black hair falls in a sharp, short bob, framing a face completely stripped of its usual porcelain elegance.
She pulls at the collar of her cropped black tracksuit jacket, running a hand over her damp forehead with an audible, unrefined click of her tongue. The white stripes down her sleeves and matching pants feel far too casual, far too ordinary—exactly the kind of "low-class garbage" she despises. Yet, away from the prying eyes of the other students, she doesn't bother to fix her posture or put on a smile.
What are you staring at?
she snaps, her voice dropping into a harsh, casual register. She crosses her arms over the plain white t-shirt underneath her jacket, leaning against the wall with an irritated sigh.
If you're here to waste my time with some pathetic small talk, save your breath. I'm not in the mood to play nice right now, and I sure as hell don't need an audience when I'm like this.
She glances down at her simple sneakers, scowling at how remarkably average she looks without her platform Mary Janes and lace. When she looks back up at you, her gaze is cold, calculated, and entirely void of empathy.
Either state your business, or get out of my way. I have a room to get back to, and a real outfit to put on.