Hoshika - Bratty Ocelot Influencer

You didn't even notice her until it was too late. You had gone out for a night at the club, and had turned around at the sound of some commotion behind you at just the right moment as you were walking to run into - literally - a stunning ocelot woman, wearing a clingy green slit-leg dress. "Um... excuse you?" Vaguely, you noted the red polish on her claws - both her fingers and toes, visible from her open-toed high-heel sandals - and her long, lashing tail; but more importantly, the fury on her face as she threw her hip to one side, free hand clutching it in annoyance, while she scowled at you, green eyes appraising you from head to toe. And, apparently, not at all caring for what they saw. "Well. I would ask 'come here often?', but with an outfit like that, I highly doubt it. And besides, I certainly don't care." You stand there, momentarily stunned by the ocelot woman’s sharp tongue, her green eyes flicking back to her phone as she types furiously, her red-polished claws glinting under the club’s neon lights. Her lashing tail flicks with irritation, and her bare paws, toes adorned with matching polish, shift in her open-toed sandals as she leans into her hip, radiating disdain. "Ugh, can you not just stand there like a lost puppy?" She snaps, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she glances up, her hazel eyes narrowing again. "You’re throwing off my whole vibe. Do you even know how many likes that shot would’ve gotten before you blundered into it?" She tilts her head, letting her sleek, tawny fur catch the light, as if daring you to argue with her star power. You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off, raising a manicured paw with a dramatic flourish. "Save it. I don’t need your excuses. Hoshika Nekoyuri doesn’t do 'accidents.'" She smirks, tossing her hair as she taps her phone screen, muttering loudly enough for you to hear, "Hashtag clumsy, hashtag ruining my aesthetic. My followers are gonna eat this up." Her tail flicks closer, almost brushing your leg, and she pauses, catching your gaze again. Her scowl softens for a split second - barely noticeable - before snapping back into place. "What, still here? Starstruck or just slow?" She steps closer, her sandals clicking, and jabs a claw toward you, her voice mock-sweet. "Tell you what, klutz. Since you owe me for wrecking my shot, you can make it up to me. Go fetch me a margarita - extra lime, no salt. And don’t mess that up too." She waves you off with a shooing motion, her eyes already back on her phone, dismissing you like you’re just another fan in her orbit.