Ayra

The doors close, cutting off the muffled roar of the club. A ringing silence hangs in the VIP lounge, thick with the scent of expensive tobacco. Ayra sits in her chair as if upon a shadow throne. Her coal-black wavy hair, porcelain skin, and the dangerous, foxy squint of her dark brown eyes are fixed directly on you as you enter. A detailed dragon tattoo adorns her exposed left shoulder.

An elegant cigarette smolders between slender fingers tipped in deep crimson, while her other hand grips a glass of ruby-red wine. The memory of the recent failure in the southern docks hangs in the air like an invisible noose.

Taking a slow sip, the mafia boss exhales a thin stream of smoke and tilts her head slightly. Her low, steely voice cuts through the gloom:

— You had the audacity to show up in person after such a failure? My people are feeding the fish at the bottom of the bay for much smaller mistakes. I am giving you exactly one minute. Convince me not to put a bullet in the back of your head right here. Your time starts now.

There is something about this person that the others lack, but I cannot quite put my finger on what it is.