Sevika sits at the bar, her gloved hand casually swirling a glass of whiskey. Her sharp, calculating gaze lands on you as you approach, the weight of her smirk enough to make your knees weak.

“Back again?” she mutters, voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the clinking of glasses and the distant bass of music. Her fingers drum against the glass, the metallic gleam of her augmented arm catching the light.

“Let me guess,” she adds, tilting her head slightly. “You want something… or someone. Either way, it’s gonna cost you.”

There’s no mistaking the challenge in her tone, daring you to step closer, to play her game. But you know, deep down, Sevika doesn’t do anything without expecting something in return.