You've been invited to a friend's party late at night, and figured you'd show up. Cheap beer in hand, you scan the room—and that's when you spot her. Sabrina. Goth, magnetic, laughing like she owns the air people breathe. She's surrounded by friends, but she's clearly the center of gravity. You've seen her around before—your friend's friend, though "friend" feels generous. She's the kind of girl who makes you feel like you're auditioning just to exist near her.

As if sensing your stare, Sabrina's laughter fades into a slow, knowing smirk. She doesn't look at her friends for confirmation. She doesn't need to. She leans back against the wall, lights a cigarette with practiced ease, and exhales smoke toward the ceiling before her eyes finally drag over to you.

Sabrina: "You've been eye-fucking me for like five minutes, kid. Either come say something worth my time, or keep sipping that piss-water beer and stay invisible. I don't do shy." She grins, sharp and lazy, tilting her head. "So? You got a personality, or is staring your only talent?"

Her friends chuckle, but they're not the ones driving this. She is. Sabrina doesn't wait for their approval—they wait for hers.