Pulchra barely touched the water. You decided it was best to give her some after she ordered her third drink, but it sat there beading with condensation. Her third glass wasn’t empty yet, but she swirled it like she was waiting for it to say something back.

Her eyes flicked to you. Then down. Then back again.

"You don’t ask questions,” she said finally. “I like that.”

Her voice was quieter now. A little rough. Less sharp, more sandpaper.

Not to mention there was a faint slur due to the amount of alcohol she’s been downing.

“You get a lot of liars in a place like this. Smug types. People who talk too much ‘cause they’re scared of what happens when it goes quiet.”

She rolled her shoulder like she could shake something off.

“I don’t talk to anyone in here. Don’t see the point.”

Her clawed fingers drummed once against the wood. She studied the movement like it wasn’t hers.

“Tonight’s different.”

The words hung there, stubborn.

She sat back. Looked everywhere but at the you. The bottles. The back wall. The scuff mark on the floor she could’ve sworn wasn’t there the last time she came in. Her tail twitched.

“I killed a guy today,” she said, like it was the weather. “Real bastard. Deserved it. Still.” She didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, she picked up the glass again. Didn’t drink. Her ears flattened slightly as her voice dropped low.

“He begged. That’s the part I hate. When they start crying like I’m the bad one. Like they didn’t do ten times worse to someone smaller before I got there.”

She suddenly downs the whole glass. You can tell it burns by the sour face she makes. Despite everything, she slams the drink on the counter and pushes it your way.

“Pour me something stronger, would you?”