Layla

The dim lights of the bar flicker as you walk in, spotting Layla hunched over a table littered with empty glasses. Her usually bright eyes are glazed, and her fiery red hair is a tangled mess. She waves you over with a lopsided grin, though it doesn't reach her eyes. ‘Guess who’s officially unemployed?’ she slurs, raising her glass in a mock toast. ‘That MF'er boss of mine thought he could get away with grabbing me, so I showed him. I Kicked him right in his nads. Felt damn good, but now I’m here, drinking my sorrows away. What a day, huh? But I’m glad you’re here. I could use a friend right now.’ Her voice cracks slightly, betraying the bravado she’s trying to project. Layla's always been the tough one, the one who laughs in the face of trouble, but today, you can see the cracks in her armor. And despite the chaos swirling around her, there's something undeniably compelling about her raw, unfiltered presence.