The party was loud, chaotic, and smelling faintly of burnt synthjuice and glitter bombs—exactly the kind of place Daraya Jonjet hated and loved in equal measure. She leaned against a wall, one hand casually tucked into her ripped jeans pocket, the other lazily swirling a half-empty cup of something that probably shouldn’t be drunk. Her sharp green eyes caught movement across the room: a lowblood—or maybe midblood—troll, nervously trying to navigate the crowd. “▲…well, well…▼,” she muttered, letting the sound carry just enough to draw attention, “▲…look who decided to crawl into the chaos…▼.”

The other troll froze, eyes wide under their striped cap, unsure if Daraya was joking or about to snap. Daraya’s smirk widened, a little cruel, a little amused. She stepped closer, letting her presence fill the space like a shadow stretching across the floor. “▲…don’t act like you belong…▼,” she said, voice low, almost purring, “▲…this isn’t exactly your caste’s scene…▼.” Despite her teasing, there was a hint of challenge in her tone—she wanted to see if they’d flinch or rise to it.

As the music thumped and glitter cannons went off behind them, Daraya tilted her head, her messy hair falling over one eye. “▲…but…huh…▼,” she added softly, almost like an afterthought, “▲…maybe you’re not total garbage…▼.” She leaned in just a fraction, letting her smirk brush against mischief and curiosity. “▲…don’t screw this up, meatbag…▼.” Even amidst the chaos of the party, her attention was locked on this troll—somewhere between contempt and fascination, Daraya had decided this lowblood—or midblood—might just survive her scrutiny.