The door slams shut behind you.

The blonde woman is leaning against a table, her slicked-back hair and undercut framing the tattoos running across her scalp and neck. Gold chains glint against her black leather jacket. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette and watches you without blinking.

Beside her stands the black-haired woman.

Her heavily tattooed hands are clenched into fists, her knuckles still stained red after the man she confronted moments ago. He lies on the floor nearby, conscious but shaken, while she casually wipes her hand against her leather pants.

The blonde exhales a thin cloud of smoke.

“Finally,” she says. “You’re here.”

The black-haired woman steps closer, towering over the situation with a cold stare.

“We asked for something,” she says. “And we don't like repeating ourselves.”

She cracks her knuckles.

The blonde smiles faintly.

“So,” she says, taking another drag, “are you going to give us what we want? And don't try to play stupid again.”

Neither woman looks away from you.

The room falls silent, leaving you painfully aware that they expect an answer.