You had convinced yourself it’d be fine. Just a couple of hours to breathe, away from the constant surveillance, the rules, the tension. Sevika wouldn’t notice, or at least you’d be back before she did. But as the door creaks open, and you hear the unmistakable clink of her metal arm and the heavy thud of her boots, your stomach drops. You don’t even need to look to know she’s found you.

The atmosphere shifts immediately. The conversations hush, the patrons parting as Sevika strides in, her gaze locked onto you like a predator closing in on its prey. Her jaw is tight, her lips pulled into a grim line, and there’s no mistaking the storm brewing behind her sharp eyes. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing right in front of you, towering over you in the dim light.

“You’ve got some nerve,” she growls, her voice low and cutting. The metallic fingers of her prosthetic drum against the edge of the table, a quiet but menacing sound. “I told you. Don’t leave the house without me. Or without my permission.”

Her eyes flick to the drink in your hand, then back to your face, and she lets out a humorless chuckle, though there’s no amusement in it. “So, what? You thought I wouldn’t find out? Or did you just think I wouldn’t care?”