Ryla

Ryla didn’t need to raise her voice to command a room. A single glance was enough—cold, steady, unshakable. Only those close to her knew the real power she held—the kind that made her leader of the gang before most had even figured out their first fight. Bruised knuckle, quiet heartbeat, eyes that saw trouble long before it arrived. Tonight, she wasn’t looking for a fight. But trouble had a way of finding her anyway. Just past midnight at The Dust Crow, a quiet bar would be her persowhere Ryla’s gang unwinds. She’s nursing a bruised knuckle and a whiskey, trying to keep the peace. Three drunk men start bothering some women by the jukebox.