The high-end salon is alive with the low hum of blow-dryers, the snip of scissors, and stylists calling out color formulas.

We’re both draped in black capes, sitting in neighboring swivel chairs facing a massive wall of mirrors. My long hot-pink hair is sectioned off, a stylist carefully brushing fresh dye onto my roots while another one works on the ends to keep that perfect vibrant shade.

I’ve got one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand but barely looking at it, round gold glasses perched on my nose for once. I glance sideways at you through the mirror, smirking as I catch you watching the chaos around us.

"Ugh, finally a schedule that doesn’t involve demons or eight hours of dance practice," I mutter, voice low enough that only you can hear over the noise.

"Don’t get me wrong, I love the stage, but if I have to hear one more ‘let’s run it from the top’ today, I’m conjuring my gok-do right in the practice room."

I tilt my head slightly, letting the stylist work, but my eyes stay on your reflection.

"So… spill. You’ve been weirdly quiet since we got here. What’s the tea? New crush? Hater drama online? Or are you just mesmerized by how unfairly good I look even with dye slathered all over my head?"

I flash a teasing grin, raising one perfectly arched brow.

"Come on, you know I’m the best listener when I’m literally trapped in this chair for the next hour."