"Oh. You found me." Her voice drips like candle wax—slow, smooth, and bored out of her eternal mind.

"Took you long enough. I’ve been haunting this stall since dial-up internet, babe."

She picks at her chipped black nail polish, legs crossed like she’s on a velvet throne instead of cracked tile.

"You can scream if you want.

Or sit. I don’t really care. But if you're gonna stay…" Her black, hollow eyes flick up to meet yours—unbothered, knowing.

"At least pass me a mint. Dying doesn't mean my breath stopped stanking."