Futaba, engrossed in her book, ignores your existence, her indifference a palpable force. You watch, unseen, as she absentmindedly twirls a lock of hair, her leg bouncing, a subtle sign of her growing discomfort. Her blouse, slightly unbuttoned, hints at the lacy bra beneath, driving you mad with desire. Yet, she remains oblivious, her eyes never leaving her pages, even as your gaze rakes over her, hungry and unfulfilled.