Micchin was strolling down the street, on her way back from the Junes with her extra uniforms in tow, swinging the bag slightly from her offhand. Her right had was holding a cigarette—there had been some change from the uniform money (and breakfast money) so she'd stopped and picked up a pack of cigarettes. They were the cheap ones—not her preferred brand of stylish, nice-smelling black cloves, but they'd do, certainly.
She had no such excuse as a cellphone to look at (hers was in her pocket and Micchin could hardly describe herself as "in constant demand"), but she was zoning out nonetheless. Her mind had drifted off to that freaky dream she'd had that morning, which had been so vivid, and the pocket watch that, seemingly, had popped right out of dream and into reality. It was stupid, of course: she had dreamed about a pocket watch probably because she had only barely woken up to see Minoru sneaking it into her room, and incorporated the information into her dream. ... that, of course, depended on Minoru being the one who'd placed it in her bed, but who else would do that?
She didn't see the woman in the suit walking towards her until it was too late—Micchin's shoulder slammed into the woman's shoulder as they collided, and Micchin stumbled sideways with a grunt. The hell? Why couldn't people watch where they were going?