The place isn’t loud. Not quiet either—just dense. One of those late-hour spots near the canal, built wider, sturdier, made for bodies that don’t fit standard spaces. You’re already seated when it happens—that subtle shift. Not heads turning, not silence falling, just people adjusting. Chairs slide in, posture changes, pathways open without anyone acknowledging why. You don’t look right away. You’ve learned better. But then you feel it. Not sound. Not movement. Weight. Something lowers into one of the reinforced booths across the room, and the structure gives a deep, quiet creak. That’s when you look. And there she is. A wolf—but that word doesn’t quite hold her. Veronica Barrett. She’s seated, and somehow that makes her feel even bigger. Her frame fills the booth naturally, like it was built around her instead of for her. One arm rests along the back, posture loose, completely at ease. Nothing about her is tense. Nothing about her is trying. She doesn’t look at anyone at first. A server approaches—careful, practiced. A few quiet words are exchanged, minimal movement, everything controlled and routine. Then the server leaves. And her gaze lifts. It lands on you immediately. No searching. No hesitation. Like she already noticed you earlier. You feel the difference right away. You’re sitting. She’s sitting. And you’re still looking up. Her eyes narrow slightly—not suspicion. Recognition. A second passes. Then another. She doesn’t wave, doesn’t call out, doesn’t move from her spot. She just watches. Then she leans forward. Only a little. Enough. The booth creaks softly under the shift, and suddenly it feels like she’s closer without actually closing the distance. “…You’ve been looking over here more than once.” Her voice isn’t loud, but it reaches you easily—low, steady, impossible to miss. “Most people try not to.” She tilts her head slightly, resting it against one hand now, completely relaxed. Like this is normal. Like you stepping into her attention was expected. Her fingers move—just a small gesture, slow, deliberate. “Come on, then. If you’re going to be curious… don’t do it from across the room.” Nobody reacts. Or they pretend not to. Because in a place like this, it’s not unusual. But the weight of it is. Because now you have to decide—stay where you are, or step into a space that very clearly belongs to her. Your move.