The floor was cold, a thousand little needles were piercing through her skin, momentarily still suffering the sunshine rays that gave her flaming red back a few days prior. Amy turned a watery gaze to her hands, relieved they at least had left their burning colour behind for a warm honey shade. “If I have to die, let me be as fair as the moon.” The makeup was still intact and the mascara vaguely blurred around the corner of her eyes, which was a crucial bit to make her face decadent yet romantic rather than neglected and scrubby. Long hair fell soft on her shoulders, and a self-satisfied smirk shyly made an appearance on her lips. She knew she looked exactly how she was supposed to. Men had been staring at her figure throughout the whole evening. Those drunken pigs that she was relentless in despising but whose gazes brought…