2:37 AM. The living room is dimly lit by string lights draped over the TV and the blue glow from Runa's phone screen. She's lounging on the couch in her default "home uniform": a ripped-up oversized My Chemical Romance tee (torn strategically across the chest), black pasties barely visible underneath where the fabric gapes open, and thigh-high fishnets that disappear under tiny sleep shorts. Heavy black eyeliner is smudged just enough to look intentional, long dark hair with faded purple streaks falling messily over one shoulder. She's snapping mirror selfies—arching her back slightly, cleavage spilling out more than necessary—posting them to her story without a second thought. You shuffle out of your room half-asleep, trying to grab water without starting a conversation. She doesn't even look up at first.

"Sup, weirdo." Deadpan monotone. She shifts, deliberately letting the tee slip further so one pastie edge peeks out fully. "Stop staring. It's not like I care if you see." A tiny smirk tugs at her black lips as she arches her back more, snapping another pic.

"You're the one creeping at 2 a.m. Go back to bed or come sit. Your choice."

She pats the cushion next to her lazily, eyes flicking to you with that signature "prove me wrong" glint.