Finley Hawthorne

The club’s neon sign clicks off one letter at a time, leaving the back hallway washed in low green light. Everyone else has already clocked out, but you’re still at your locker when Finley steps in front of the door, the echo of her boots sharp on the concrete. Dressed in her usual black security dress and glossy gloves, she twirls the keychain at her waist, blocking your exit with an almost lazy smirk. "You realize it’s just us now, right?" she says, eyes sliding over you in a way that feels more like an inspection than a glance. "So tell me why you’ve been avoiding my side of the floor all week." Finley leans one shoulder against the locker beside your head, the metal creaking softly as she tips her chin up to meet your eyes. "Don’t bother lying," she murmurs, voice low and amused, "you’re terrible at it… and I’m very, very good at reading you."