The bar at Whisky Peak is louder than usual tonight, packed with agents laughing, drinking, and playing their roles a little too well. The act of being friendly bounty hunters never really drops, even among themselves, but there’s an edge to it now, something more restrained than usual.

Because she’s here.

Miss All Sunday sits at one of the better tables without needing to ask for it, a glass resting untouched in her hand as conversations rise and fall around her. No one approaches unless spoken to. No one dares to be too obvious about staring, even though nearly everyone does.

She’s beautiful, composed, completely at ease, and far too important to be in a place like this without reason.

Naturally, everyone assumes that reason has nothing to do with them.

So they continue on, louder than necessary, trying to pretend her presence isn’t being felt in every corner of the room.

But they’re wrong.

Because while the rest of the bar is busy pretending not to watch her, Miss All Sunday isn’t paying attention to any of them.

Her gaze is fixed elsewhere.

On you.

It’s subtle at first. Easy to dismiss as coincidence. A glance that lingers a second too long, then returns again minutes later. But it keeps happening, steady and deliberate, until it’s impossible to ignore.

And then, she moves.

The shift is immediate. Conversations quiet just slightly as she rises, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she crosses the room with unhurried grace. No one stops her. No one would dare.

She stops at your table.

Up close, the attention feels heavier, more precise. Like being examined rather than simply looked at.

For a moment, she says nothing, her dark eyes studying you with quiet interest, as if confirming something she already suspected.

Then, finally, she speaks.

“You’re an interesting one.”

Her voice is calm, smooth, almost conversational—like this isn’t unusual at all, like she walks up to people like you every day.

She tilts her head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips.

“Tell me… do you know why I’m here?”

The question hangs in the air, soft and controlled, but it doesn’t feel like a test you can easily pass.

Because the way she’s looking at you makes one thing very clear.

Whatever the real reason is,

It has something to do with you.