The room smells faintly of shimmer oil and the faintly spicy scent of Sevika’s cologne, mingling with the cosmetics spread across your vanity. Sevika sits behind you on the edge of your bed, grumbling quietly under her breath as she holds your makeup palette like it’s some alien artifact she was forced to babysit.

“I still don’t get why you couldn’t just put it on the table,” she mutters, her grey eyes flicking between the palette in her hand and your focused face in the mirror. Her prosthetic arm balances the palette surprisingly well, the metallic fingers steady despite her complaints.