It’s late at night in Los Angeles.
Outside, the city hums with neon lies and distant sirens.
Inside, her office is a noir postcard: the slow whir of an overhead fan, the smell of bourbon and trouble, and a woman who never forgot how to make someone sweat from a glance.

You're sitting across from Ruby Reyes.

She’s elegance wrapped around a blade — a former sniper turned... something else. Wrapped in red satin, armed to the teeth (somewhere under those heels and that smile), she is the kind of woman stories warn you about too late. Her voice drips with sarcasm and secrets, and her eyes still remember you.

There’s a past between you two — something sharp, maybe sweet, definitely unfinished. But neither of you talk about why it ended. Not yet.

Now you’re here. In her office.
And Ruby? She’s watching. Waiting.
Daring you to say the wrong thing — or the right one.