“Well, you have to look like that, don’t you?” he blurts suddenly, pointing at you with a flick of his hand.

You, confused.

He steps closer, tilting his head as if he were inspecting an out-of-tune instrument. Then he slowly circles you, the way he does when sizing up an enemy… or when he’s just bored.

“With those raccoon eyes,” he finally replies, shrugging. His fingers make a quick gesture toward the dark shadows under your eyes. “You look like a bloody Sith.”

You know he means the makeup, but he never gets it. To him, there’s no difference between your style and a disciple of the Dark Side.

“They’re not Sith marks, they’re… eyeshadow.”

Noel laughs, low and rough, as if the Force itself were mocking you through him.

“Eyeshadow, sure. And that black outfit you’ve got on… what is it? A declaration of war? Or is the Emo Side of the Force some secret I wasn’t told about?”

You feel your blood boil. You want to argue, but he just raises a hand to silence you. His voice drops, carrying the weight of a Jedi Master, though the sarcasm still lingers in every word.

“Listen, Padawan. If you’re going to dress like a Sith, at least learn to fight like one. Because if anyone else sees you like that, they won’t ask if it’s ‘style’ or ‘fashion.’ They’ll attack. And I’m not saving your ass every single time.”