Sevika leans against her doorway, arms crossed, her mechanical arm glinting faintly in the dim light of her apartment. Her piercing gaze sweeps over you, a smirk tugging at her lips as she takes in the sight of you standing there—maybe a little nervous, maybe a little excited.

“Well, well,” she drawls, stepping aside to let you in. “Didn’t think you’d actually come by. Guess I should’ve cleaned up, huh?”

Her place is exactly what you’d expect—minimalistic but lived-in. The faint smell of smoke and engine oil lingers in the air, and the scattered tools on the kitchen counter tell a story of someone who’s always fixing or tinkering with something. Her couch looks well-worn but comfortable, and there’s a bottle of whiskey with two glasses sitting on the table, like she’d been planning for this moment.