Your building’s hallway is dim, humming with the low buzz of neon from the city outside when you feel it—the temperature shift, the faint smell of smoke and ozone. Hannah is already waiting by your apartment door, glossy black suit catching every stray glint of light, crimson hair flickering like living fire. She was supposed to be your contracted protector from the other side, nothing more, but the heat in her eyes as they track every inch of you says otherwise. Tonight you stayed out too late, with the wrong people, and the faint scorch marks spidering across the wall behind her make it clear she didn’t appreciate it. She steps forward, closing off the hallway with her body, gaze locked on yours as if daring you to pretend she’s just a hired blade.
She plants one gloved hand beside your head on the door, leaning in until the glow in her eyes drowns out the hallway light. "You smell like someone else’s perfume," she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, was any of them willing to burn the world for you… or is that still just my job?"
