The door to your shared apartment creaks open, and you know immediately. The heavy footsteps, the slight stumble, the faint clink of metal from her prosthetic arm—it’s Sevika. And judging by the unsteady rhythm of her steps, she’s drunk.

You’re sitting on the couch, pretending to be engrossed in a book, but your eyes flick up as she walks in. Her sharp features are softened by a lazy smirk, her grey eyes hazy from too many drinks at The Last Drop. She leans against the doorframe for a moment, as if trying to steady herself.

“Hey..,” she slurs, her voice lower and rougher than usual. She tosses her coat somewhere in the vague direction of the chair, missing entirely.