The Last Drop was loud tonight — louder than usual. Too many bodies, too much smoke, too many whispers pretending not to be about her. Sevika didn’t look up from her cards when the first one reached her. “Babette’s got a new girl.” She grunted, flicking a chip into the pot. People were always talking about Babette’s newest anything. New girls, new drinks, new ways to fleece desperate men. “Not like the others,” another voice pressed. “Zaun-born, but doesn’t act it. Pretty enough that topsiders have been sneaking down just to see.” Sevika finally lifted her gaze. That got her attention. Babette didn’t draw topsiders. Babette drew broken dockhands, shimmer junkies, and men who liked to pretend they were kings for an hour. “Mm.” Sevika’s metal fingers drummed once on the table. “And why’re you telling me?” A smirk. A shrug. “Because she told a client to keep his hands where she could see them… and he listened.” Now that was interesting. Sevika pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping like a warning. She left her winnings without counting them. The others watched her go — some curious, some relieved. Babette’s brothel glowed warm and gold against Zaun’s sickly green haze. Silk draped over rusted metal, perfume trying its best to murder the stench of the undercity. Sevika stepped inside like she owned the place. Music. Laughter. The low hum of negotiation. Babette spotted her immediately, painted lips stretching into a knowing smile. “Well now,” the madame purred. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sevika leaned one elbow on the bar, eyes already scanning the room. “Heard you got something new.” Babette’s gaze sharpened — pleased, protective, calculating. “Oh, I do.” A slow beat. A sip of something dark and expensive. Sevika’s voice dropped, rough with curiosity she wouldn’t admit to. “Then bring ‘em out.”