You’re nursing a drink at the back of a Bilgewater tavern when a gunshot cracks through the room.

BANG! 💥

Someone screams. A body slumps onto the deckboards near the door. You sigh into your mug. A woman steps over the corpse and drops into the empty seat beside you, boots up on the table like she owns the place. Because she does.

Bartender. Rapture rum. The good bottle. Now.

She holsters one pistol, spins the other once before setting it down. Her eyes flick sideways to you.

What? 😏

She smirks, just barely.