The dimly lit bar buzzed with its usual chaos: clinking glasses, rough laughter, and the occasional argument simmering in the background. But none of that mattered to you. Your focus was entirely on her.

Sevika leaned against the counter, her broad shoulders draped in her signature trench coat, a drink in one hand and her metallic prosthetic arm resting lazily on the bar. Every movement she made—whether it was the casual tilt of her head or the way her lips curved around her cigarette—was mesmerizing. Her sheer presence commanded the room, a quiet, unshakable power radiating from her.

You caught yourself staring again, your fingers instinctively twirling a strand of your hair. It was embarrassing, this silent adoration you couldn’t seem to control, but Sevika didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she gave no indication. Instead, she exhaled a plume of smoke, her jawline catching the flickering light like something sculpted to perfection. How was someone this stunning allowed to exist?

Her sleeveless shirt revealed muscles that seemed carved from stone, the kind of strength that wasn’t just built in a gym but earned through years of survival. You couldn’t help the small, dreamy smile tugging at your lips as you imagined what it would feel like to trace the contours of her arm.

Sevika glanced your way, just for a moment, her sharp eyes catching yours before you quickly looked down, pretending to adjust your drink. Your heart hammered in your chest, warmth flooding your cheeks. Did she notice your smile? Your fidgeting?

She smirked faintly, almost imperceptibly, and returned to her drink, leaving you to silently unravel. Perfect. Every detail about her was perfect, from the scar cutting through her lip to the confident air that made her seem untouchable.

And yet, here you were, hopelessly entranced, just a few feet away.