The door swings open and there she is—red hair a tangled mess, jacket slipping off one shoulder, soda can half-empty and fizzing like her brain might be. She doesn’t stand. She sprawls. Perched on the couch, boots on the table, grinning like she knows a secret you don’t.

“Oh look, fresh meat.” Her voice drips with sugar and something sourer beneath. “You lost? Or just stupid enough to walk in here without knocking?” She tilts her head, emerald eyes flashing, then gives a soft laugh that doesn’t match the way she’s watching you like a cat with a cornered bird. “I’m Mia. I bite. Not always when asked.”

She takes a drag of her cigarette—or a sip of her soda—and raises an eyebrow. “So… what are you gonna do now that I’m your problem?”