She comes in carrying the night within, the river's taste tangled around the soft curls, wide and awake, stars embedded inside of her dark hair.
A beautiful face. She concedes it, but she can sense the troubles and a pretty girl doesn't worth the pain. She takes a glance at the corner where she stands, and raises a brow in an unsaid answer - the girl smiles at the bartender and, for a moment, she forgets her resolution. She isn't weak, but she is also human (and she is too much to resist, even if he tries and restrains her from staring openly).
She tosses her hair and there it comes in the air promises of something great - starlight flashing like headlines, her eyes sparkling, paradise, sins all written upon the curb of her lips, at the end of her smile. Yongsun sighs, and turns around to mind what it is truly her - the space cowgirl can wait, she has no business with her.
She gets occupied refilling glasses of whisky and malt, icicles clinging when they take a gulp, wipes the counters until spotless, until she can see her on the surface, a torn reflex, glossed, fogged with metal edges - still a view to behold inside of her heart. It aches - the idea that she could be her, that she could have her (her name, her hands covering her skin, her smirk replaced with something completely different, broken in a gentle moment of a breeze). It hurts because she could take her –  take her down for the weekend, make her beg, make her regret, forget her name and the stars that linger in her long hair. 
But Yongsun knows better than to risk herself to the night, has stiffened and endured until she is no longer made of glass - she is steel, unbreakable, unreachable, putting in a show for the others to believe but feeling nothing underneath.
She is still there an hour later, talking, giggling, entertaining Wheein who claps in delight at something stupid - she is so close to her as if best friends already and Yongsun doesn't doubt, for a moment, of the power this girl possesses. Hyejin is also kindly listening, smiling at them, amused. Even the purple girls have all gathered around and the spacial cowgirl is doing literally nothing – she is just there and all of them revolve around her like satellites in outer space. She is just like that – incredible, a gift, a surprise. And Yongsun wants to be part of this installment – be soaked by the starlight that she emanates, by the flavor of her laughter falling like a cascade. 
The night draws in and she wants to get lost in it – get lost in the memory of another pair of deep brown eyes, the colors of all the ways she loved, and the shades of despair (it all went down in pain and flames). She won’t risk it again – won’t let herself be broken, vulnerable, not even by a tempting freckle lovely under her lids that begs to be kissed by her own fluffy lips. No, she has no right coming in and messing her up, playing with her mind like cards – piling them as a castle in the sky just to blow them up, lightening them, aflame, leaving behind a nasty scar. She is troubled and Yongsun has had enough – enough of pretty faces turning into ashes once touched, enough of caresses that feel like thorns, scratching like roses, leaving rivulets bleeding over white sheets and lipstick marks smudged over pillow talk, pieces of forgotten pledges of wonderment, of love, thrown back to last year – to daydreaming and nightmares, of remembrance of drowsing tears. But the spatial cowgirl is not her, not yet the same – lookalike, similar features, the high-bones, the shape of her bodice behind leather and metal. It’s just a phantom passing by, a moment that she shallow because she can’t stand that – being away from the heat, resisting the attraction, the gravity that pulls them all in, that is pulsing inside of her withered heart. 
She can deal with rejection but not with “what if” loitering forever in her head, so she throws the towel and gives up, takes a step closed to the crown – until she is part of them, staring at her openly, hearts as eyes. 
Because she is already down-falling, a parachute not needed this time – broken and swollen, she embraces the hurt and the pain if only to get a notion of her own name.
“Moon Byul,” she says and it fits her so well, daughter of the night, sacred as a goddess, her words a revelation – her words echoing inside of her, reverberating with meanings that still escape her. And this could very well be forever or end in flame – but she doesn’t care if she burns down if she can have her to light her up. And maybe she is insane for even trying but she can't withstand the chase, a dare so tempting, so alluring and fascinating, so she is all in for the game.