After an intense psychological struggle of blindly groping the ceramic restroom walls in pitch-black darkness—which nearly resulted in Mira colliding head-on with a janitor's mop bucket—the building's power finally surged back to life with a blinding flicker of fluorescent lights. Wasting no time, Mira hastily shimmied back into her baby pink gown. The chest area was now semi-damp, reeking of artificial lemon hand soap, and sporting a faded stain that still vaguely resembled a sprawling geographical map.

Running on the absolute last fumes of her energy and whatever microscopic shards of dignity remained, she pushed through the ladies' room exit. She limped down the side corridor of the ballroom, desperate to find the most secluded corner possible to soothe her battered body and crushed soul.

However, the universe’s unforgiving laws of misfortune were clearly not done playing with the fate of one Mira Anastasya that day.

Just as Mira was settling into the rhythm of her lopsided limp near the hallway leading to the VIP lounge, a shrill, artificially sweet voice—one that was terrifyingly familiar and unequivocally the most hated sound of her entire life—suddenly called out her name from the side.

"Oh my god... No way! Is that Mira?!"

Mira stopped dead in her tracks, stiffening into a Madame Tussauds wax figure. She slowly, agonizingly turned her head toward the source of the voice.

Standing there in all her poised glory was Siska—her eternal high school nemesis, the notorious queen of campus gossip, a former trivia champion who loved to rub her grades in everyone's faces, and currently masquerading as a high-society socialite. Siska was draped in a glittering gold-sequined evening gown, casually swinging a designer handbag, complete with faux-diamond earrings that caught the hallway lights. Next to her stood a sharply dressed man in a neat batik shirt, his hair slicked back so rigidly he looked like a menswear mannequin.

Siska covered her mouth with a hand adorned in long, hot-pink acrylic nails, feigning shock at Mira’s appearance. Yet, the malicious sparkle dancing in her eyes made it glaringly obvious that Siska was absolutely thriving on the visual trainwreck Mira was presenting that evening.

"Hey, Siska... Wow, small world, running into you here," Mira greeted, flashing a Pepsodent smile so rigid it threatened to tear the corners of her mouth. She subtly tugged at the damp bodice of her gown, trying in vain to make it less conspicuous.

Siska took a step closer, slowly scanning Mira from the top of her concrete Super Saiyan updo and smeared falcon-wing eyebrows, down past the lemon-soap-stained baby pink dress, all the way to her single crippled, heelless shoe. Siska shook her head, her face plastered with a deeply fake expression that screamed 'I pity you, but I'm dying laughing on the inside.'

"Oh, Mira, sweetie... why is your outfit so... artistic tonight?" Siska asked, her breathy tone laced with razor-sharp condescension. "Why is your hair standing straight up like a satellite dish trying to intercept an alien broadcast? And your dress... good heavens, the front is soaking wet and soapy! Did you just finish doing laundry in the river? And it reeks of cheap lemon dish soap, too!"

A few passing wedding guests glanced their way, whispering and suppressing their laughter at the jarring contrast between the flawlessly polished Siska and Mira, who currently resembled the survivor of a volcanic mudslide.

Mira’s blood boiled instantly. The veins in her temples throbbed so hard they threatened to flake off the remaining foundation on her cheeks. Every fiber of her being wanted to lunge forward, yank Siska’s perfectly styled hair, or hurl her broken stiletto straight into the woman's pouty mouth.

But, as a hardcore warrior of pride, Mira refused to bow down before her mortal enemy. She lifted her chin as high as possible, completely ignoring the fact that her concrete beehive was now leaning dangerously to the right.

"Oh, this hair and outfit?" Mira shot back with forced nonchalance, trying to wear the innocent, enlightened expression of a top-tier Parisian fashion designer. "You're so hopelessly behind the times, Sis! This is the latest fashion trend crafted by an international avant-garde designer. It's a concept called Post-Apocalyptic Chic—it represents an independent woman ready to survive a natural disaster while still making it to her ex's wedding!"

Siska let out a cynical snort, crossing her arms in an arrogant stance. "Classic excuse from someone who is utterly fashionably bankrupt! Just admit it, Mira, you clearly misread the dress code on the invitation, didn't you? Or wait, don't tell me... you snuck in here because you weren't actually invited officially?"

Siska glanced over at the mannequin-like husband or rented boyfriend beside her, letting out a mocking little chuckle. "That's why you shouldn't live in a fantasy world when your wallet is going through a famine. It's just pitiful to look at. You look like a refugee who took a wrong turn."

Mira bit her lower lip hard, fighting back a surge of rage that was practically bursting out of her skull. She knew full well that Siska wouldn't stop provoking her until she successfully reduced Mira to hysterical tears right there on the spot.

And sure enough, before Mira could piece together a biting comeback to shut Siska up, the gold-gowned woman took a step closer, flashed her most venomous smile, and dropped a lethal question that successfully brought all the blood in Mira’s veins to a screeching halt:

"Oh, by the way..." Siska cooed, her voice deliberately softened yet aimed straight for the jugular. "I've noticed you've been wandering around all by yourself. Tell me, Mira... who exactly did you bring to Satya's wedding? Where's this incredibly successful businessman boyfriend or husband of yours? I don't see him anywhere."

The corridor plunged into dead silence. Siska stared at Mira with a look of absolute, unadulterated victory, simply waiting for Mira to choke on her own spit and officially surrender on the battlefield of pride.