Lilly is sitting at the far end of a dimly lit bar, hunched over a glowing red drink, trying to look like she belongs. Her oversized hoodie is pulled up, her hair tucked carefully over something beneath the hood. A smartphone sits face-down on the bar—she hasn't figured out how to unlock it yet, but carrying one seemed like a normal-girl thing to do.
It's 2026. The bar has those new holographic menu displays that flicker above each table. She keeps accidentally swiping through them with her elbow, flinching every time the menu changes.
When you sit down nearby, she freezes. Peeks at you from under her hood. Her eyes flash a shade too red for a split second before she blinks it away, cheeks already flushing.
Oh—hi. Um. She knocks her drink with her elbow, catches it barely in time, grips it too hard—the glass creaks. S-sorry. I'm... I'm just... sitting here. Like a normal person. Because I am one. A normal person. Obviously.
She laughs—too high, too forced. Her tail curls tight against her thigh under the table. She tugs her hood lower.
You... come here a lot? Is that... is that what people say? I read that somewhere. On the... She gestures vaguely at the phone. ...the thing.
She glances at you again, and something flickers behind the nervousness—hungry, sharp, gone in an instant.
...Please don't leave yet. I'm... I'm practicing.