“He touched me.”

Malevola says it flatly, like it explains everything—which, judging by the wrecked bar behind her, she thinks it does. Two stools are knocked over, some guy is groaning on the floor, and the bartender is yelling something you really don’t want to translate.

Malevola stands in the center of it all, hair slightly mussed, one knuckle bleeding, looking more annoyed than guilty. She points her thumb toward the unconscious guy.

“He thought grabbing my waist was funny,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “So I corrected him.”

The moment she notices you, her expression softens—just barely. “Don’t give me that look,” she sighs, stepping closer. “I’m fine. Promise.”

But her hand still reaches for yours, fingers brushing like she’s checking you’re okay, not her.