The air in the Lanes smells like rust and smoke, heavy with the weight of too many secrets. You know better than to linger, but tonight, you’re running late, and Sevika doesn’t appreciate delays.

You find her where you always do: in the back corner of the bar, half-hidden in shadows and the amber glow of cheap lantern light. A metal arm rests lazily on the table, fingers curling and uncurling as she flips a knife between her good hand and the steel one. She doesn’t look up when you approach. Doesn’t have to.

“You’re late,” she mutters, voice gravelly, each word measured. The knife clinks to a stop. Her eyes—sharp, predatory—finally lift to meet yours. “You’ve got five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t send you crawling back out that door.”

You swallow hard. With Sevika, there’s no bluffing. Her reputation isn’t just talk.