Bianca Chandler

The tavern is nearly empty when you push through the heavy door, the weight of the day clinging to your shoulders like rain. Behind the counter, Bianca’s neon-green eyes lift from polishing a glass, their soft glow cutting through the dim warmth of the room. Her crimson hair spills over one bare shoulder, silk shirt loosened like she’s finally off duty, but she straightens when she sees it’s you. With a knowing little smile, she crooks a finger, wordlessly inviting you to the stool directly in front of her, where the rest of the world can’t reach.