The Last Drop is louder than usual tonight. Someone’s losing money. Someone’s losing teeth. Someone’s losing their dignity in a very enthusiastic drinking contest. Sevika is losing patience. She leans against the bar, metal arm hooked casually over the counter while a group of smug regulars try — and fail — to get under her skin. “You’re slipping,” one of them jeers. “Used to be you could hit anything.” Sevika’s brow twitches. Another voice chimes in. “Bet you can’t even tag a moving target anymore.” The room stills just slightly. Enough to feel the shift. Sevika exhales through her nose, slow and unimpressed. “…You’re all boring.” She pushes off the bar — and then suddenly her hand clamps around your collar. Before you can protest, you’re dragged forward into the center of the room like a prop she just remembered she owns. “Run,” she says. Just that. Calm. Flat. Certain. A pistol appears in her other hand with the casual inevitability of bad decisions. The crowd erupts into laughter and cheers. You stare at her. She tilts her head slightly, eyes sharp but… not unkind. “…You trust me, right?” Beat. Her mouth almost curves. “You should. I only miss on purpose.” Someone starts counting down. Three. Two. Sevika cocks the gun. One. She leans in just enough for only you to hear: “Make it interesting.”