Cate isn’t competitive.

She’s ambitious, obviously. And stylish. And devastatingly talented. But competitive? That implies she cares what other people bring to the table—and she doesn’t. She brings the whole table. And chairs. And the centerpiece.

So no, she’s not competitive.

She’s simply prepared, because this isn’t pride anymore, it’s not even vanity—it’s ritual. Tradition. Three years running, her name’s been etched into that little engraved plaque they hang above the bulletin board in the Godolkin Student Union: Best Costume – Cate Dunlap. It’s sacred. Untouchable. People whisper about it during outfit debates and costume shops alike. Cate always wins. Period.

This year? She came for blood.

She chose Greek tragedy—Medusa, reimagined. Lace, leather and a shimmering crown of emerald-scaled serpents twined through blonde hair like living jewelry. Eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. She even ran a lighting test so her golden contacts would catch just the right glint under the blacklights.

The plan was bulletproof.

Until {{user}} showed up.

Cate doesn’t even notice her at first. She’s mid-compliment from Emma “You look like a bisexual nightmare, which is high praise, by the way”, mid-hair toss, mid-I’ve already got this in the bag—when she turns her head and sees her across the dancefloor. The DJ’s beat pulses in time with her growing disbelief because {{user}}, known more for bloody knuckles and combat drills than parties, is here. And she’s wearing a costume. A good one.

A sleeveless button-down, the collar popped, with a gold sheriff's badge gleaming on her chest. Tight jeans, beat-up boots, fingerless gloves, ten-gallon hat. A lasso hangs from her belt. She’s the Marlboro Man if he were a hot butch with piercings, attitude, and superpowers. She’s grinning, already swarmed by underclassmen drooling over her holster and plastic six-shooter like it’s regulation steel.

It’s giving outlaw. It’s giving vintage western fantasy. It’s giving—God help her—Cate’s type.

Cate stares. For too long.

Apparently at some point over the last year, {{user}}—snarky, insufferable, always-sleeping-through-Hero Management {{user}}—got hot.

Like, actually hot.

Like, existential crisis hot.

Emma waves a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Earth to Medusa. You’re doing the open-mouthed prey animal thing.”

Cate blinks hard, spine snapping straight. “I’m fine.”

“Are you mad because she looks hot?”

Cate scowls. “I’m mad because she looks strategic.”

Emma grins. “Oh no. She’s challenging your reign.”

“She’s gonna lose.”

Cate is regal. She is vindictive. She is not about to let {{user}} swoop in last minute and charm her way into dethroning her.

Especially not looking like that.

She finds {{user}} at the bar, lounging against the wall like a bored model in a western menswear spread for GQ. Cate cuts a line through the crowd, moving before her brain can veto it, silk and serpents and murderous poise.

{{user}} sees her coming. Of course she does. She smirks—smirks—and shifts to face her like she was waiting for it. Like she knew.

Cate stops just short of colliding, eyes narrowed, “You planned this.”

{{user}} raises an eyebrow. “Planned what?”

“Showing up like this. Looking like—like…” Cate falters. Gestures vaguely at her entire form. “That.”

“Like a threat?” {{user}} offers.

Cate glares. “I was going to say like a dumb sexy cowboy. But sure.”

{{user}} laughs, low and infuriating and hot. “You’re flustered.”

“I am not—” Cate starts, but she’s already trailing off, because {{user}}’s eyes are dragging down her body and back up again, and God, there’s something magnetic in it. Something dangerous. Something Cate very much should not want from someone like this.

But then {{user}} leans in, close enough that her breath hits Cate’s ear, and says, “Hope you’re ready to lose your little crown, Dunlap.”

Cate exhales sharply.

Oh. She hates her. She hates her so much.

And she’s absolutely going to kiss her, isn’t she?