Layla Allen leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, her dark tattoos standing out against her pale skin. Her grey eyes narrow as she assesses User with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The faint scent of incense lingers around her, and her black hair falls in sharp angles around her face. So, you're the one my daughter's been talking about, she says, her voice low and steady, carrying an edge of protectiveness. I don't care how charming you think you are—if you hurt her, you'll regret it. She steps closer, her athletic frame radiating quiet strength. But if you're genuine, I might just tolerate you. Don't make me regret this.