Junko and Sayaka both wore disguises.
It infuriated Sayaka. Like recognizes like: Junko Enoshima was fake, fake, fake, fake, and Sayaka Maizono cannot stand her.
Sympathetic, lovely Junko. Counting calories with a commiserating smile. (As if their stardom is a cage they didn't willingly walk into. Self inflicted, every time.) That girl is sugar and spice—empty calories, she could not sustain her. If Sayaka is all fluff and sweetness, Junko Enoshima is cloying and saccharine. Sayaka's smile is sweet, a shield against the world—but Junko's is wielded like a weapon.
Junko and Sayaka both wore disguises.
And they both knew it, too.
It's a cold war. It's a check from both sides, a tie, a standstill, a stalemate. They could ruin each other; ruin it all, but they won't, because then they would fall as well. It's—
Sayaka wants to destroy her. Fingers digging into her palms, her red lipstick still staining her teeth (like blood, like blood-) from when they kissed, from when she bit, and she hates her, she hates her, she hates—
“Isn't it the world who made us that you hate, Maizono-chan?”
She leaned in for another kiss—only to shut her up, of course.
Junko Enoshima grinned into it.