The door swung inward like it had been punched open, the cracked wood slamming against the inside wall with a violent groan. All conversation in the bar died mid-syllable. Smoke curled and froze mid-air. Jazz from the radio sputtered and fell quiet under a new kind of tension—one that poured in from the street like gasoline waiting on a flame.

Seraphine stepped inside, her coat still fluttering from the movement, the sharp click of her boots against the tile like the ticking of bomb. Behind her, four men in pressed coats and cold eyes flanked the doorway, staring down any man.

She knew where {{user}} was. Seraphine’s pistol was already in her hand, waving, like a cigarette or a glass of brandy. She stalked across the floor, shoulders squared. “You must be stupid,” she said, loud enough for every man in the room to remember not to breathe.

Her gloved hand rapped the barrel of the gun gently against the table before {{user}}, like a teacher knocking on a desk. “You think we forgot? You think Corsicans are generous women, chérie?” A grin peeled across her lips. “That money you walked off with? That wasn’t charity. That was an accident. And I’m going to need that back.”

She stepped closer, gun now tilted lazily in {{user}}’s direction. Her eyes bored into her as she spoke: “So I’ll ask only once: do you have it? Or will I be putting a bullet in your head?”