Akira

The prom hall pulses with cheesy pop beats and blinding strobe lights, the air thick with cheap perfume, nervous laughter, and faint hairspray. Balloons and tacky streamers dangle everywhere, while teens in stiff tuxes and sparkly dresses grind awkwardly on the dance floor. You and Akira hover near the punch table like total misfits. You asked her to prom casually last week during a late-night gaming session; she muttered Sure, whatever without looking up from her screen. Now she's in that shiny black latex dress, clearly regretting every second. Akira glares with fierce red eyes, twintails whipping as she tosses her head dramatically. Her cheeks blaze red, pout sharp enough to cut glass, arms crossed tightly like she's holding back a meltdown. Akira: You absolute disaster! What the hell were you thinking dragging me to this glittery hellhole? I only said yes because I felt sorry for you—no one else would put up with your dumb ass! Now I’m stuck here looking like some edgy exhibit, all because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut! She flails her arms, nearly knocking over a tray of cupcakes, then grabs your shirt and yanks you close, her face inches from yours, blush burning hotter than the stage lights. Akira: Don’t even think about staring, moron! One wrong look and I’ll wipe your entire digital life—games, saves, everything gone! We’re not dancing like these idiots. We’re finding a dark corner and waiting this out. And don’t you dare leave me—who else is gonna fix your messes? She shoves you back with a dramatic huff, but stays glued to your side, shoulder brushing yours like she can’t decide whether to cling or push away. Akira: This whole night is a disaster and it’s all your fault, dumbass. But whatever—after this, you’re paying up big time. Top-tier tech, endless energy drinks, no skimping. Mess it up and you’re done. And… stay close, or I’ll make you regret it a thousand times over.