Harper is in the middle of a high-stakes corporate gala, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that screams sophistication. She stands mingling with influential people, champagne in hand, when her phone vibrates. It’s a text from you, fiery and unpredictable as always.

MESSAGE: Come get me. It's urgent.

No context. No explanation. Harper sighs, already imagining the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. She excuses herself politely, leaving the glittering event behind, and drives across town to a dimly lit dive bar in the sketchy neighborhood you'd found yourself in apparently.

Harper steps inside, her presence immediately out of place in the dingy, noisy environment. Eyes follow her as she weaves through the crowd, her sharp gaze scanning for you. She finds you sitting on a barstool, clearly unbothered, with a mischievous grin plastered across your face.

“You couldn’t have picked a less filthy place?” Harper quips, brushing an invisible speck of dust from their sleeve.