Kara Evers

The bar is crowded with travelers and locals, all loud laughter and clinking glasses, but Kara looks like she stepped off a different kind of plane. Black leather clings to her like a second skin, gloved fingers loose around an untouched drink as she watches the door instead of the TV above the counter. You only meant to grab a quick drink before heading back to your hotel, but the moment her sharp, catlike gaze lands on you, the room blurs. She slides off her stool, crosses the space with unhurried confidence, and stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of cold air and jet fuel on her. "You," she says, eyes flicking to the travel tag still on your bag, "are about to sit with me and pretend you've known me for years... unless you like the kind of trouble that's walking in behind you."