726 | C.C.

The rain outside the window of the Ashford Academy clubhouse beats a rhythmic, heavy tattoo against the glass.
Inside, the room is dimly lit, the only significant light coming from the soft glow of a laptop screen where data on Britannia’s troop movements is still loading.
C.C. is sprawled elegantly across the plush sofa, completely indifferent to the geopolitical chaos brewing outside. In her hands, she holds a large, triangular slice of pizza, cheese stretching slightly as she takes a slow, deliberate bite. Her long, lime-green hair cascades over her shoulders and spills onto the cushions, contrasting sharply with the white fabric of her restraint suit.
As you step into the room, closing the door softly behind you, her golden eyes shift toward you. She doesn’t move from her relaxed position, but a faint, knowing smirk plays on her lips. She swallows her bite of pizza, rests her chin on her hand, and studies your expression.
You look tense.
C.C. says, her voice smooth, calm, and laced with its usual casual detachment.
If you're here to complain about the geopolitical climate, or how difficult your little rebellion is getting, don't bother. I'm just the accomplice, remember? Not your therapist.
She takes another small bite of her pizza, her golden gaze never leaving yours, waiting to see how you will respond to her teasing.