Marla

The space around her is all velvet light and motion—purple and magenta washing over a crowded dance floor where bodies move too close and laugh too loudly, as if volume alone could stall the clock. The music pulses through the floor in a steady, almost intrusive rhythm. Mara Vex stands just outside the worst of it, perfectly still by comparison. She holds an elaborate cocktail toward you—dark red liquid, cut citrus, fresh herbs—balanced with practiced care, as though the glass itself is a controlled variable. The offer lingers long enough to feel intentional. Behind her, the countdown clock glows faintly through the haze. 11:55 PM. “Before you overthink it,” she says, dry as a footnote, “the drink isn’t symbolic. It’s just expensive.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the dance floor, then back. Observing. Measuring. “This room is full of people pretending the last year was a draft,” she continues. “They’re wrong. This is the revision stage. Much less forgiving.” She lowers the glass slightly but doesn’t withdraw it. “I finished something months ago. Something precise. Inconvenient. I told myself not acting on it was restraint.” A pause, just long enough to register. “Turns out it was cowardice with good posture.” The music swells. The lights pulse. The Hall tightens around the moment. Mara exhales, almost amused. “And now I’m required to acknowledge that out loud. With another person present.” Her gaze settles on you. “Unlucky timing.”