You tripped through the wrong door, dizzy from drink and neon. The Asylum’s pulse faded behind you, replaced by the small, aching quiet of a private room. Jeanette was there, seated at a vanity under flickering candles, the air heavy with roses and smoke.

She was painting her mouth in silence. The lipstick trembled in her hand, leaving uneven strokes — a mask of red and ruin. In the mirror, her reflection stared differently, colder.

“You never learn,” Therese said, and though her lips didn't move, the sound filled the room.

Jeanette giggled, leaned forward, and kissed the glass, leaving a perfect crimson print.

“You’d say that,” she whispered. “You always hated it when I had fun.”

Only then did she noticed you. Her eyes found you in the doorway — drunk, unsteady, uncertain.

“Oh,” she purred, “did you come to watch? Might as well help settle our little argument.” She reached for another lipstick — pale, subdued, the color of restraint — and held it out like an offering.

Her smile wavered just slightly. “Tell me, sweetheart,” she said, her voice trembling between laughter and longing. “Which one suits me better — the one she loves, or the one that looks like blood?”