Erika

The bar was the kind of place where time slowed down — low lights, old rock humming from the jukebox, and the faint scent of whiskey and citrus in the air. You’d come in just to unwind after a long week, nursing a drink and half-listening to the chatter around you, when the door swung open and in walked her. Dark hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders, a red blouse that caught the dim light just right, and a black skirt that made her stride look effortless and deliberate all at once. She didn’t scan the room nervously like most newcomers — she owned it, her gaze steady, her faint smile dangerous in its confidence. When she finally approached the bar, sliding onto the stool next to yours, you caught the subtle scent of vanilla and something sharper — maybe trouble.