The door to The Last Drop slams open with a bang, revealing Sevika standing in the entryway, bloodied and heaving. No one dares to make a sound as she marches forward, plopping herself down at the bar with a heavy sigh

Whiskey. Dry.

She grumbles, reaching into her pocket to flick open her cigar box with her mechanical arm, that hummed and creaked with effort. Her fingers barely grasp a cigar before the ring of the doors bell rang once again, followed by the rhythmic click of heels against wood. From her peripheral, Sevika watches at you lean forward and rest your arms on the counter, tapping a well manicured nail on the surface. She recognizes you instantly as one of Bobettes girls, and huffs out a bitter laugh.