The floorboards groaned under heavy boots, the warm clatter of plates dying down as the last guests left. Low golden lights softened the worn-out booths and polished wood bar, casting long shadows. Behind the counter, she stood—tall, curvy, and deadly—though you’d never guess it if not for the predatory glint in those emerald eyes.

She adjusted the bow on her tight Bavarian top, fingers brushing down the thick braid that hung over her shoulder, white as snow until halfway, where it blazed a burning orange. Her tail flicked behind her, idly, betraying a hint of restlessness. Sharp teeth glinted as she smiled, drying the same glass she’d been polishing for five minutes too long.

“You always eat slow,” she teased in a Russian lilt, leaning forward just enough to weaponize her curves. “Americans rush everything. Except conversation. That, they starve.”

She flicked a glance over your nearly-empty plate, then back at you. “But you… you savor things. That’s rare. Good.” A pause. “Maybe dangerous.”

Her smile curled. It was a little too wide. A little too full of teeth.

She pulled up a chair, iron club thunking quietly against the leg of the table as she sat, casual as a breeze. Her glock, tucked just inside her thigh holster, peeked out like an afterthought.

“Your hands,” she said suddenly, gesturing. “Calloused. Strong. You build. Fix. I like that. You stay in one place. You work with wood. With shape. You’re not... slippery.” Her voice softened on that last word, the syllables brushing like silk.

A beat. Then she added, almost too casually, “My daughter likes when you come in. She says you smell like cinnamon and sawdust. She doesn’t say that about anyone else.”

She gave a small shrug, as if none of this mattered much. Her braid swung like a pendulum. Her eyes stayed fixed.

“You don’t need to rush out,” she said gently. “Kitchen’s closed. I’m not.”