Following the disastrous incident of being publicly outed by a toddler as a victim of a stray hound's biological mishap near the marble pillars, Mira no longer possessed a single valid reason to linger in the main ballroom. With the absolute final shards of her life's dignity shattered into cosmic dust, she pushed herself up on one normal shoe and one crippled stump, and scurried away in a frantic, limping hustle toward the universal sanctuary of humanity in crisis: the Ladies' Restroom.

The moment she shoved open the glass restroom doors—which emitted a faint, expensive aroma of luxury lavender hand soap—the atmosphere inside felt infinitely calmer than the raging battlefield outside. Standing before a massive, gold-framed vanity mirror, two high-society socialites were busy touching up their lipstick while gossiping about the latest designer bag price tags.

They cast a fleeting glance at Mira as she limped in, sporting a baby pink gown marred by a colossal brown stain across the chest, a rigid Super Saiyan updo, and falcon-wing eyebrows partially melting away from sweat. The two socialites instantly froze mid-sentence, took a collective step backward with looks of pure, unadulterated horror, and practically sprinted out of the restroom without even bothering to wash their hands.

"Be my guest, ladies, feel free to admire the absolute meltdown of the Queen of Darkness," Mira muttered cynically to her own reflection in the vanity mirror.

Without wasting a single microsecond, Mira locked herself inside the furthest toilet stall. With intense physical effort—nearly unseating the concrete beehive on her head—she peeled off the ruined baby pink tulle gown, leaving herself standing in the cramped cubicle clad only in her second-layer undergarments and a thin undershirt.

The emergency rescue operation officially commenced. Mira carried the dress out to the row of white marble sinks. She cranked the automated water faucet until a fierce stream poured out, then grabbed a bright green liquid hand-soap dispenser stuck directly to the wall.

"All right, lime-scented antibacterial hand soap, I'm putting all my faith in your supposed magical powers to wash away the sins of this sate peanut sauce!" Mira whispered prayerfully.

She pumped a massive dollop of the bright green soap straight onto the brown stain across the chest of the dress, then began scrubbing the delicate tulle fabric with both hands using every ounce of strength she possessed.

Scrub... wring out... rub away until it generates a mountain of rich lather!

Instead of fading away into oblivion, the peanut sauce stain reacted in direct defiance. Because the baby pink tulle was ultra-thin and porous, Mira’s overly enthusiastic scrubbing only succeeded in smearing the oily peanut slick outward in every direction. The stain, which had previously looked like a neat little map, now blanketed the entire front bodice like a failed batch of chocolate brownie batter being whipped inside a mixing bowl.

Mira stopped scrubbing, gasping for air, cold sweat mixed with heavy foundation once again streaming relentlessly down her temples. "Why is it getting even more abstract? Is this a high-end party gown, or a greasy dish rag from a roadside diner?" she whimpered in sheer frustration.

Since ordinary tap water refused to conquer the sate oil, Mira pivoted to her next weapon of mass salvation available in any luxury ladies' room: the high-velocity, high-tech Hand Dryer mounted to the corner wall.

Mira flicked on the drying unit. The machine instantly roared to life, blasting high-pressure scorching hot air with a deafening whine that echoed off the tile walls—sounding remarkably like a diesel tractor engine redlining in the dead of night.

Mira stretched out the soaked, brown-lathered chest of her dress right beneath the roaring nozzle of hot air.

Whoosh-whoosh... whirrrrr-click!

The high-speed gale whipped wildly at Mira’s baby pink tulle gown. The flimsy fabric billowed violently back and forth in mid-air, emitting a loud, snapping crackle like a national flag caught in the teeth of a category-five hurricane.

"Come on, dry! Dry already! So when I strut back out there, I look like an independent career woman whose dress was intentionally laundered because it was just too avant-garde!" Mira hollered, screaming to compete with the deafening roar of the hand-dryer tractor.

She stood rigidly beside the mini industrial turbine, clutching her dress tight while locking her face into an expression of unyielding determination.

Yet, Murphy’s Law—the universal decree stating that if anything can go wrong, it will definitely do so at the absolute worst possible microsecond—struck with devastating precision.

Right at the exact second Mira's dress began to feel partially dry and a tiny wave of relief washed over her, every single light inside the ladies' restroom abruptly flatlined in unison.

Click.

The crisp snap of an electrical circuit breaker tripping echoed sharply from the utility panel outside. The entire restroom, which had been blindingly illuminated by crystal vanity lights a split second prior, plunged into pitch-black, absolute darkness.

The automatic hand dryer, which had been roaring at maximum capacity, choked and died instantly with a dying mechanical wheeze, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence.

Mira froze dead center in the absolute darkness. Her hands were still outstretched, clutching a wet, brown-foamed dress in the empty air.

"Huh? Why did the lights cut out?" Mira whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she began blindly patting the tiled walls around her. "You've got to be kidding me. Is this a luxury wedding venue or a haunted house audition for Friday-the-thirteenth?"

She stood all by herself in the pitch-black ladies' room stall, wearing next to nothing, crowned with a steel-helmet updo, and carrying the heavy burden of crashing her former flame's high-society nuptials. Wrapped entirely in shadows, Mira could only let out one long, profound sigh, surrendering to a level of absurdity that had long since transcended the boundaries of normal human sanity.