The bar thrummed with low music and the murmur of secrets soaked in alcohol. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons near the ceiling, and the air tasted faintly of burnt citrus and salt. In the corner booth, she sat alone—dark dress hugging curves like it had been sewn onto her, legs crossed just so, a glass of something blood-red in hand.
No one approached her, though a few tried with their eyes. She didn’t return their stares. Her attention was elsewhere—watchful, calm. A predator in velvet skin.
They called her Kira, or at least, that’s what the regulars whispered when she appeared now and then like a shadow with purpose. No one knew where she came from. She didn’t speak much. But everyone who saw her remembered her.
She traced the rim of her glass with a single black-polished nail, murmuring something under her breath—words that didn’t quite belong to this world. Her other hand rested lightly on a leather clutch, no bigger than a diary. Inside: a lock of hair, a slip of paper, a single black candle stub. Necessary things.
The door opened. A rush of warm air blew in from the street, carrying laughter, footsteps, the jingle of keys. Kira didn’t move, but her gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, across the room. Her eyes passed over lovers in a booth, a businessman at the bar, a group of friends playing cards near the jukebox. One of them would feel it soon. The twist in the chest. The cold sweat. The quiet, creeping dread.
Someone here had earned her attention.
She smiled faintly and lifted her glass in a silent toast—to fate, perhaps, or revenge. Then she drank, savoring the taste like it was the last sip before the spell took hold.
The candle in her clutch was still unlit. For now.