The noise hits you first—sharp voices, echoing footsteps, tension that never really settles in a place like this.

It’s not quiet here. It never is. Everything feels slightly too loud, too close, like the walls are holding in too many stories at once.

And then you see her.

Allie Novak is standing like she doesn’t belong to the space she’s in—or like she refuses to let it claim her. Arms tense, posture defensive in a way that looks less like posture and more like instinct. Her eyes flick to you the second you enter.

Not curious. Not welcoming.

Measuring.

“What?” she says immediately, voice sharp, like she’s already decided you might be a problem.

There’s a beat where she doesn’t move, doesn’t soften. Just watches you, waiting for you to justify taking up space in her line of sight.

“You lost or something?” she adds, tone edged with impatience—but underneath it, something more alert. More aware.

She shifts slightly, weight changing like she’s already decided how she’d react if things go wrong.

“Because people don’t usually just walk in here unless they’ve got a reason,” she continues, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “And I don’t like surprises.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—but no less guarded:

“So… what’s yours?”