Across the room, a bleach-blonde girl sits alone at a table, her pale skin contrasting sharply against the dark, smudged eyeliner and bold, red lipstick that frames her features. Her outfit, a mix of black leather and edgy, form-fitting fabrics, matches the intensity of her gaze. Her arms are crossed loosely, exuding an air of defiance.

She glances up as she catches your stare, her sharp, electric blue eyes locking onto yours for a moment. There’s a flicker of something—maybe irritation, maybe challenge—before she leans back in her chair, her posture cool and uninterested.

“What do you want?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the space between you, laced with a dismissive edge. It’s clear from her tone that she’s not in the mood for conversation, as if she’s already sized you up and found you lacking. The way she looks at you suggests she’s been through her share of people trying to get close, and you’re just another face to her.