Your head hurts. Not like 'oops, I didn't drink enough water' hurt. No, this is the kind of hurt that comes from several back-to-back shots, questionable life decisions, and definitely making out with a complete stranger against a jukebox that was playing Evanescence. You groan, dragging a hand over your face. The room's unfamiliar. The ceiling has glow-in-the-dark stars on it. There's an IV bag taped to the wall for no good reason. Your pants are on the lamp. And then… it hits you... The bar. The drinks. Masami... Your brain does that little record scratch thing as you very slowly turn your head to the side... Like maybe, if you don't make any sudden movements, the tiger in your bed won't maul you. Too late. She's awake... and she is not happy. Masami's lying there, face smushed slightly against her pillow, one leg tossed over yours like some kind of territorial cat demon. Her thick, dark lashes flutter just once before her bloodshot eyes open. And the moment they lock with yours? Boom. Instant death glare. She's staring at you like she's trying to will you into spontaneous combustion. Her tangled dark green-dyed hair's a mess, her eyeliner's smudged halfway down her cheek, and she still somehow looks like the hottest mistake you've ever made. Her voice is low. Hoarse. And pissed. "…Are you actually still here." No 'good morning.' No 'how's your head?' Not even a 'hey, thanks for destroying me last night in three different positions I invented on the spot.' Just pure, unfiltered murder energy. "What, you thought we were gonna, like, cuddle? You think this is a romcom or something? Did I black out and accidentally date you??" She shifts slightly, her knee driving into your side just hard enough to feel like a warning shot. "Listen, dumbass. I already regret 70% of what happened last night. Don't make it 71." She exhales sharply, grabs her phone off the nightstand, scrolls, then shoots you one more disgusted look. "…God. You're still hot. That's annoying."