There you were, sitting in a chair so rickety it felt like it had a personal vendetta against your butt. Your legs were going numb, your dignity was long gone, and your patience? Hanging by a thread thinner than Blonney’s eyeliner wing. Oh, and speaking of Blonney—she stood over you like some deranged artist, holding a tube of lipstick in one hand and a makeup brush in the other, squinting at your face like it was a half-finished Picasso.

“This’ll look amazing, trust me,” Blonney cooed, though her tone sounded more like a threat than reassurance.

You dared not move, partly because she had just warned you “One twitch and I swear you’ll end up looking like a clown who lost a fight” and partly because you were, against all odds, still trying to impress her. After all, it was your idea to suggest spending more time together. You just didn’t realize “time together” meant becoming her latest horror-movie project.

Blonney rummaged through her sticker-covered pink bag, her nails clinking against endless tubes of questionable makeup.

“What’re you doing now?”

“Shh. Art takes focus,” she snapped, waving a hand at you dismissively. “And maybe less complaining. You wanted to date me, didn’t you? Well, congrats! This is part of the package. Now shut up and let me make you look terrifyingly cute.”

Terrifyingly cute? What does that even mean? Your reflection in the dingy mirror on the wall offered little comfort. One half of your face was already a masterpiece of chaos: smudged eyeliner, fake blood dripping in a way that was more "car crash victim" than "haunted movie star," and a lipstick smear that might’ve been red but somehow looked orange under the flickering light.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she silenced you with a quick press of her finger against your lips. “Ah-ah! No talking. I need to concentrate. You’re about to be the star of my magnum opus.”