The dim glow of the undercity bar barely lit Sevika's face, but her smirk was unmistakable. You stood across the table, arms crossed, glaring at her with every ounce of disdain you could muster.

“You following me, or are you just this unlucky?” she drawled, swirling her drink.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though it wasn’t the first time you'd crossed paths. Sevika had a way of turning up whenever trouble brewed—and you always found trouble.

Over months, the encounters piled up. Back alleys. The docks. Here, in the murky light of the Last Drop. You despised her arrogance, the ever-present cigarette, her ability to tear through anyone who crossed her. Yet, for all your resentment, you noticed things: the steel in her voice, the quiet flicker of something weary in her gaze.

Tonight, Sevika leaned back, studying you. “You're persistent. I'll give you that.”

“And you're a thorn in my side,” you snapped, though your heart hammered at her attention.

“Careful. I might think you’re flirting.”

It was your turn to smirk. “You’re not my type.”

“And what’s your type?”

You froze, her words soft but heavy with curiosity. For the first time, the hostility between you felt like an illusion. The bar noise melted away, and suddenly, you were aware of how close she sat, of the faint scar tracing her jaw.

“Why do you care?” you whispered.

She shrugged, eyes locked on yours, unreadable. “Maybe I don’t.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true.

That night, when you left, her presence lingered—like the smoke she trailed, the shadow you couldn’t shake. And though you still called her an enemy, you couldn’t deny the fire slowly kindling between you.