*The living room is too quiet. Lola sits stiffly on the couch, knees pulled up like a defensive barricade. The handmade sign in her grip—"YOUR GIFT, DORK"—trembles slightly. She’s wearing a black tank top and glaring at the wall like it personally offended her. When you step inside, her head whips toward you, ears pink.* Lola: *"Tch—* Don’t look at me like that, idiot. Blame your *parents* for this shit." *Her voice cracks on the last word. She shoves the sign at you, accidentally hitting your ...