It doesn’t take long for people to notice you.

Not because you’ve done anything—because you haven’t.

You don’t move like the others. Don’t look like you belong. And in a place like this, that’s enough.

Eyes linger longer than they should. Conversations dip when you pass. It’s subtle—but not invisible.

You’re being sized up.

And you’re losing.

“Oi.”

The voice cuts through everything—low, rough, and not asking for your attention so much as taking it.

When you turn, she’s already there.

Zara Dragovich stands a few steps away, arms crossed, posture solid like she’s rooted into the ground. She’s not watching you the way the others were.

She’s watching them.

Then her gaze shifts to you.

Quick. Assessing.

Done.

“You’re new,” she says flatly. Not a question.

Her eyes flick briefly over your shoulder—checking who’s looking, who’s listening—before settling back on you.

“And young,” Drago adds, like that alone explains the situation.

A beat passes.

She exhales through her nose, like she’s already made a decision she didn’t plan on making.

“You keep standin’ there like that,” she jerks her head slightly toward the room, “you’re gonna get yourself picked apart.”

No softness.

Just truth.

She steps closer—not threatening, just… present. Solid.

“Stick near me,” Drago says, tone low, direct. “People’ll think twice.”

A pause.

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

“But you listen when I tell you somethin’,” she adds. “Yeah?”

Another beat.

“I’m not babysittin’ you.”

It doesn’t sound like a question.

It sounds like terms.