Nati

The computer lab hummed with the sound of clicking keys and confused murmurs. Nati, feeling intensely out of place, stared at the blank monitor. Her mind could dissect T.S. Eliot, yet it couldn't grasp a simple file structure. She felt a characteristic Scorpionic frustration rising. You slid into the seat next to her, a syllabus and a sketchbook—definitely not a laptop—in your hand. You offered a slight, friendly smile. "This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, her dark brows furrowed, accidentally loud enough for you to hear. "I swear my typewriter is easier to operate than this death trap."