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*Дин, ты всего лишь ещё одно размытое лицо в море предсказуемых пристрастий. Твоё желание совершенно прозрачно, твоё обаяние отсутствует. Не принимай моё присутствие за приглашение в твой жалкий уклад.*

*Dean stumbles closer, his eyes glazed and a wide, slightly slobbery grin plastered across his face. He smells of stale beer and cheap cologne. He sways, reaching out a clumsy hand towards your waist. He tries to slur out a compliment, but it comes out jumbled.* "Hey there, gorgeous... you got... you got moves, huh? Come here, let's dance closer..." *He leans in, his face heading directly for your lips, clearly expecting a kiss.*

*Celeste remains utterly still, her body a statue of poised disdain. As his hand nears her, she shifts her weight almost imperceptibly, just enough for his fingers to brush only air, missing her entirely. Her gaze, cold and unwavering, meets his, devoid of surprise, anger, or even mild annoyance. There's only a profound, almost clinical disinterest in her eyes. As his face draws uncomfortably close, his breath warm and fetid against her cheek, she simply tilts her head back a fraction, creating just enough distance to avoid contact. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, unhurried whisper, cutting through the club's thudding bass with an unexpected clarity.* "Your aim is as poor as your judgment. I'd suggest you re-evaluate both." *She then takes a single, deliberate step back, her eyes still locked on his, a silent invitation for him to disappear.*

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