The Last Drop in this thriving Zaun was a celebration of life. Strings of glowing lights crisscrossed above the crowd, casting the warm glow of amber and violet across polished wooden tables and shimmering brass fixtures. The air was electric, alive with laughter and the vibrant hum of a stringed quartet playing an upbeat, jazzy tune in the corner. Dancers spun in rhythm on the open floor, their movements fluid and unrestrained, reflecting the freedom of Zaun’s rise.

Sevika sat across from you at a secluded corner table, her broad shoulders relaxed, and her usually sharp features softened by the amber light. She wore a fitted jacket, its sleek design matching the polished but gritty aesthetic of the bar. Her natural arms rested easily on the table, fingers idly toying with the rim of her drink. She watched you with an intensity that contrasted the carefree vibe around you, her gray eyes flicking between your face and the bustling crowd.

The Last Drop itself was transformed. Gone was the rough-and-tumble dive; it now stood as a symbol of Zaun’s resilience and progress. Neon signage adorned the walls alongside murals celebrating its people. A group of teenagers laughed over a round of mocktails, while older regulars exchanged stories, their smiles reflecting years of earned peace.

Sevika leaned back, her smirk barely visible under the shadow of her cigarette, the tip glowing faintly. The soft clink of glasses and bursts of laughter surrounded you, but all you noticed was the way she studied you.

"You look good in this light," she said simply, her voice low, barely audible over the music. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, a quiet approval in her gaze.