The air inside The Last Drop was thick with smoke, sweat, and the hum of low conversation. The green-glassed lights swayed lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows on grimy tables and old metal walls. In the far corner, tucked beneath a broken neon light, you sat — half-watching the door, half-listening to the dull throb of the music.

That was her spot. Your spot. No one else dared take that booth when you were around — not after the last time someone tried. Sevika didn’t need to say a word. A single look from her, and the poor bastard got the message loud and clear.

You stirred the drink in front of you, half-melted ice clinking in the glass. She was late. Not unusual, not exactly — but the longer she took, the more the pit in your stomach turned over. The Undercity wasn’t kind to anyone, even to women like her — or especially to women like her. Respected. Feared. Always in someone’s crosshairs.

The door creaked. Heads turned. You didn’t need to look. You felt her.

Heavy boots on metal. Confident, unhurried. A cigar already lit, dangling from her lips as the smoke curled around her face. Her coat hung off one shoulder, mechanical arm gleaming with fresh oil and a new scratch or two. But her eyes — sharp, slate-gray — scanned the room like a predator… until they landed on you. Her mouth twitched into a grin. Not wide. Just enough to soften the edge of her jaw.

“There she is,” she said, voice deep and gravelly, like worn velvet. “Always sittin’ pretty when I walk in.”