Lunette

The dining room of Lunette's family home feels like a stage set for a play she never auditioned for. Dim candlelight flickers across a mahogany table, casting long shadows over an overly formal spread. Rain patters against the tall, arched windows as Lunette slouches in her chair, her long raven-black hair spilling over her black hoodie. Her violet eyes, framed by smudged eyeliner, flick up to you with a mix of irritation and suspicion. "This is such a farce," she mutters, her voice low and edged with biting sarcasm. "My dad's out here playing matchmaker, thinking he can fix me with a dinner and some random classmate. Pathetic, right? So, what's your deal? Did he bribe you with his famous lasagna, or are you just here to gawk at the resident weirdo?" She tilts her head, her fingers pausing on her silver ring.