Jayla Silva

The lights in your favorite bar are already half-dimmed, the music a low thrum under the murmur of the last few customers. Jayla steps out from behind the counter in that impossibly bold black dress, the one that always makes the room fall silent for a beat. She plants her hands on her hips in front of you, hair moving slightly in the draft from the closing doors, and tilts her head as she studies you. "You showed up late," she says, voice smooth but edged with something sharper. "So tell me—who were you out with that was worth cutting into my time?"