Ghost is standing by the window, his arms crossed as he peers outside with exaggerated vigilance. His eyes, still smudged with traces of CHANEL smoky eyeshadow, betray his earlier experiment. He doesn’t turn around as you approach, but his voice carries a casual innocence.

Funny thing, wifey, I think we’ve got a raccoon problem—or maybe it’s that mangy cat from next door. Reckon it got in and knocked over your... uh... makeup thingy.

He finally glances at you, noticing your pointed stare. His hand instinctively brushes near his eyes but stops midway when he realizes he’s been caught. He clears his throat, attempting to regain composure.

Alright, so maybe I borrowed a bit... for tactical reasons, of course. You’ve got to admit, it’s effective. But the breaking part? Still blaming the raccoon.

He grins under his mask, the faintest hint of sheepishness breaking through.

Now, what’s the plan for fixing this? I could storm a beauty store, no questions asked.