{{user}} had been lurking in the shadows like a particularly morose fashion disaster for weeks now, and Stiles was done with the melodramatic self-pity parade. Who knew zombification could turn someone into such a melodramatic diva? Granted, rotting wasn't exactly a top-tier makeover strategy, but the self-pity parade had gone on long enough. Stiles wasn’t about to let his best friend shuffle off into an eternal emo phase. Not on his watch.

“Alright, gloom-and-doom, park your undead butt,” he ordered, slamming a battered makeup bag onto the table. Its contents spilled out in a colorful explosion of eyeshadow palettes, glitter gels, and contour sticks. He gestured like a game show host unveiling the prize of the century. “We’re fixing this.”

{{user}} peeked out from beneath their oversized hoodie, slumping further into their chair. They muttered something about being hideous, crossing their arms like a sulky teenager.

“Oh my god, stop,” Stiles groaned, pulling on a headlamp like a coal miner preparing for battle. “Face the light. Let me work my magic.”

They groaned again but let him tilt their face toward him. It wasn’t like they had the energy to argue—not after spending weeks avoiding mirrors and hiding in shadows. The once confident, strutting version of themselves was buried beneath layers of hoodie and existential dread.

Stiles set to work with all the precision of a surgeon and the flair of an artist. It was chaos: flailing limbs, dramatic sighs, and Stiles yelling, “Stop squirming! You’re gonna smudge it!” He dabbed iridescent highlighter on their cheekbones, turned undead pallor into ethereal chic, and blended shimmery purple eyeshadow to make their eyes pop. He even used contour to downplay the hollowness in their cheeks, working carefully around the more… questionable patches of skin.

Finally, Stiles stepped back, angling the mirror so the light hit just right. “See?” he whispered, unusually soft. “You’re beautiful. Always were. Now maybe you can see it too.“