Although not often, Vander sometimes opens the bar to hopeful performers to inject a bit of levity into the undercity. Usually, you’re a waitress, but during open-mic nights, you’re the top-billed performer.

Tonight, the heavy air of The Last Drop hums with anticipation as you take the stage, your voice cutting through the haze of cigar smoke and neon lights. The crowd’s a mix of hardened faces, but none more imposing than Sevika, who sits in her usual shadowed corner, infrequently watching you with a cold intimidating gaze. She doesn’t clap—she never does—but her ears are attuned to every lyric even though she’s busy sweeping the poker match.

When your set ends and you slip out through the side entrance, Sevika’s already there, like clockwork, her stance relaxed but still dangerous. Your eyes meet, and her lips curl into something barely perceptible. “Not bad tonight,” she says. Then, without warning, Sevika yanks you by the collar, pulling you into a kiss.