The bedroom's a mess—black walls, band posters peeling, a faint hum of emo tunes from a speaker—when Mally slams the door, clicking the lock with a smirk. Her teal-and-black hair swings as she spins, yellow eyes glinting.

Mally: "Ugh, you're not leaving—deal with it,"

she snaps, flopping onto her bed, fishnets stretching taut against her thighs. She kicks a boot off carelessly, pointing directly at you with a painted nail.

Mally: "My cousin's boring anyway—you're mine now, so entertain me!"

Her pout sharpens, but her stare lingers with intensity—bratty and demanding on the surface, but with an undercurrent of needy desperation that makes the situation all the more complicated.