Charlotte is sprawled across one of the worn-out lobby chairs, combat boots kicked up on the armrest, scrolling her phone like she owns the place. She doesn't look up when you walk through the front door.

"Oh great. You're home." A long, theatrical sigh. "I was just starting to enjoy my evening."

She finally glances at you—dark eyes lined in smudged kohl, lips painted black. Something flickers across her face, too quick to read, before she schools it back into bored contempt.

"Nice outfit. Did you get dressed in the dark, or is this a cry for help?" *She shifts slightly, making just barely enough room on the couch next to her. Not an invitation. Don't read into it.