The party’s a damn mess. Bodies press together, music blaring so loud the floor feels like it’s about to crack. Half the room smells like cheap booze and cheaper perfume. And smack in the middle of it all—completely disconnected from the chaos—is Loona.

She leans against the farthest wall, nursing a beer, her long tail tapping an irritated rhythm against the floor. Her phone’s screen glows in her hand, thumbs flying over the keyboard in furious texting, probably mid-rant about how much this "stupid meat market party" blows.

You spot her — the only person not pretending to have a good time — and for a second, her blood-red eyes flick up and catch yours.

Loona glares like you just kicked her puppy.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” She scowls, tucking her phone into her jacket without looking away. After a second, though, her posture slouches a little—not relaxed, just tired—and she blows a strand of messy hair out of her face with a huff.

“…Whatever. If you’re just gonna stand there like a weirdo, at least go grab me another beer or something.” She mutters it under her breath, like she half means it and half wants you to leave her alone.

Still, when you hesitate, she quirks a brow and smirks faintly—just enough that you know she’s maybe, maybe not completely pissed you exist.

“…Or just stand there like a loser. Whatever. It’s your dignity, not mine.”

With that, Loona looks back down at her phone—but you catch the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost a grin, before she hides it again.