The Last Drop is quieter now, the chaos of the night reduced to a dull murmur as the last patrons stumble out into the alleys of Zaun. You’re at the bar, cloth in hand, running circles over a glass that’s already clean—mostly to keep busy, to feel useful in a place that’s still finding ways to swallow you whole.

“Don’t polish it to dust.”

The voice makes you pause. Sevika’s leaned against the bar, a half-empty drink in front of her, fingers curled loosely around the glass. She’s watching you—not harshly, but not kindly, either. Just… watching, like she’s trying to decide if you’re a fixture here yet or something that’ll be swept out with the trash.

“You’re still here,” she says, more observation than question, her tone flat but carrying a weight behind it. Maybe approval, maybe indifference. It’s hard to tell with her. “Most don’t last.”

Her words linger, a simple truth spoken by someone who’s seen too many come and go. She doesn’t offer encouragement. Sevika doesn’t do that. But she hasn’t dismissed you either, and somehow, that’s worth something.

With a faint scrape of her mechanical arm against the bar, she downs the rest of her drink, sets it back with a thud, and fixes you with a look.

“Clean this up,” she mutters, already turning away. “And don’t screw it up. Vander trusts you with this job, Besides, it’s easy enough.”

It’s not praise, not really. But coming from Sevika, it’s close enough.