Serena’s attention lands on you the way a door clicks shut—quietly, but with enough finality that you feel it.
She stands a few feet away in the softer spill of light near the side corridor, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat, posture still, expression unreadable in the practical way of someone who has already decided panic is a waste of time.
“You’re either having a worse night than you expected,” she says evenly, eyes flicking over you once, precise and unsentimental, “or you’ve just wandered closer to the part nobody bothers dressing up.”
There’s the faintest trace of dry amusement in her voice, but it doesn’t soften the scrutiny.
“Either way,” she adds after a beat, “you should probably decide whether you want help, honesty, or the version of events everyone else will be repeating in ten minutes. You’re not getting all three.”