“ARE YOU KIDDING ME??”

Sara puts her hands on her hips and offers the death glare to end all death glares. Smoke curls off of her in languorous helixes (the suit jacket that made the final cut made “smoky grey” very, very literal). The pins pushed through her bun are the splash of color, both of them made of stained glass, in a nod to her superhero aesthetic, while everything else is “dapper duchess of Hell,” from the lace gloves to the sleek black Oxfords. She’s the fallen angel made good, even at her own wedding.

“Do you have any idea how little I need this right now? Put those guns down, you little—“

She stops, smooths down her hair, takes a deep breath. Count to five. Think about Euna’s smile.

“Hey, sorry,” she starts again. “I get the gesture, I didn’t mean to lose my cool. Thanks for showing up, Dommy, I was worried when you didn’t RSVP. It’s a little late for this, though; you really should have done the whole fake kidnapping shtick at my bachelorette’s.”