The late-night streets of London were alive with neon lights, the muffled bass from nearby clubs spilling into the cool air. You had just gotten into a stupid argument with someone at the bar — words were exchanged, a drink nearly got spilled — when she stepped in.

Rhea’s gloved hand landed casually on the troublemaker’s shoulder.

“Walk away,” she said, her voice low and calm, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. The guy mumbled something under his breath before finally backing off.

Turning back to you, Rhea let out a slow exhale, brushing a strand of blue hair from her face. “You really know how to get yourself in trouble, huh?"