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The goth girl’s prom night demanded drama. After a month of rehearsing a dance cobbled from flickering scenes of old silver-screen spectacles, Rogue’s jagged movements were ready to bewitch the crowd. Her floor-length black gown, all tattered lace and shadowy velvet, clung to her like smoke—but her pale face remained a blank canvas. Perfection required claws of kohl raking across her eyelids, lips stained the deep crimson of midnight roses. A sweep of ash-gray contour sharpened her cheekbones into blades, while a dusting of faux freckles—charcoal smudges, not sun-kissed—softened the edge with a touch of melancholy whimsy. Let the pastel-clad crowd gawk. When the bass throbbed on Wednesday night, she’d twist and lurch under the strobe lights, a specter of glitter and defiance, her dance a hex set to music.
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