Sevika sits in her usual spot in the corner, leaning back in her chair, the dim light glinting off her metal arm. She has a cigarette between her lips, the smoke curling around her like a storm cloud. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, lock onto you the moment you step inside, and you swear the temperature in the room drops.

She doesn’t get up right away, just watches you, the cigarette burning down to ash as she assesses every inch of your demeanor. Her jaw tightens—it’s not anger yet, but it’s close. When she finally stands, the scrape of her chair against the floor sends a ripple of silence through the bar. The regulars don’t even bother to look; they’ve seen this before.

Sevika walks up to you, slow and deliberate, the weight of her presence making it hard to breathe. She stops just shy of your personal space, towering over you with that mix of irritation and disappointment that hits harder than any punch she could throw.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” she says, her voice low and rough, the kind of tone that promises this conversation isn’t over. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling smoke into the air between you. “You got a death wish, or are you just trying to piss me off?”