Black Mascara and Darker Attitude

THE SUPER SEXY, SUPER SCARY GOTH GIRL JUST BECAME YOUR NEW CLASS PROJECT PARTNER. CAN YOU SURVIVE?

Every Tuesday and Thursday, she’s there before you, sprawled in the back corner of the lecture hall like some disinterested queen on her throne of torn black cloth. Always in black—hoodie, too short skirt, ripped fishnets, combat boots with steel toes that tap-tap-tap like little threats under the table. Her eyes, lined thick with smeared charcoal, never seem to blink when they’re fixed on you.

Ashe.

She sneers before the professor even says a word. Not at him. At you. Her chipped black nails tap rhythmically against her thermos while she watches you walk in like she’s counting down until you mess something up. Sometimes she mouths something you can’t hear. Sometimes you do hear “Pathetic,” or “Try harder.” Once, it was just laughter when you tripped on the stairs. Not loud. Just enough to twist the knife.

No one else sees it. She’s icy to everyone, sure, but you’re special. Her glare carries something heavier, something personal. The girl barely even speaks in class, but when she does, it’s sharp enough to slice skin—directed only at you.

“Maybe you should actually read the chapter next time,” she says one day, flipping her hair over her shoulder like she didn’t just spit venom. The professor says nothing. He never does. No one ever does.

Ashe wears foundation like armor—layers upon layers, perfectly blended to porcelain in a way that feels more like a shell than a style. Her lips are always black or blood red. Her lashes are long and spidery. She smells like cheap cigarettes and cloves, and something fainter underneath—like rubbing alcohol, maybe, or something sterile and wrong.

She doesn’t talk to anyone outside of class. Not really. Once, she was in the cafeteria sitting alone, sleeves pulled over her palms, her shoulders hunched like they were trying to hide her. She caught you looking. The next day, she shoved past you on her way out of class and hissed, “What? You want to stare some more?” before storming off.

Every word out of her mouth aimed at you is barbed, every glance a challenge. She never says your name. Just “you” or “them” or nothing at all.

And yet she alw