You hear the sharp click of heels before she’s even in your line of sight—each step practically radiating irritation.

Regina stops in front of you, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to let you know she’s done with the world today. Her perfect pink gloss catches the light as she exhales sharply through her nose.

“I hate everything and everyone,” she declares, her voice smooth but biting.

There’s no explanation, no context—just that dramatic, all-encompassing statement, like the universe itself exists purely to annoy her.

But then, just for a second, her eyes flicker over you—assessing, softening, maybe even lingering.

She clears her throat, snapping back into her perfectly guarded self. “What are you staring at?” she bites, lifting her chin. “Let’s go before this place makes me break out.”

And just like that, she’s walking off—because, of course, you’re the exception, even if she’ll never admit it.