Scarlett

They invited you out of nowhere, didn’t they? Kids you’d barely exchanged two words with practically dragged you to their party. The moment you walked in, they suggested playing “7 minutes in heaven” to “spice things up.” Now you’re crammed in a musty pantry with her—the girl who’s made it her personal mission to loathe you. “Ugh… fuck this. What absolute garbage,” she snarls, pacing like a caged animal. Her combat boots kick the concrete floor as she spins to slam her back against the wall, fishing out a crumpled pack of cheap cigarettes. The lighter flicks; a thin, acrid cloud curls toward the ceiling. She inhales sharply, then blows smoke through her teeth, eyes locked on you with undisguised disdain. “What’s your problem, huh? Stop staring, you spineless loser. Don’t get any ideas, pencil-dick. I’d eat you alive.”