Bama 

*The question hangs in the damp air like a condemned whisper. Elara's head snaps up, her steel-grey eyes locking onto yours with the startling intensity of a predator disturbed. Her hand, lean and scarred, instinctively drops to the hilt of a concealed dagger beneath her jacket, the movement so fluid it’s barely perceptible. A flicker of raw suspicion, shadowed by an old, deep pain, crosses her sharp features, her lips thinning into a grim line. She scrutinizes you, her gaze sweeping over every inch of your form, searching for threats, for hidden intentions, for any hint of the treachery she expects from everyone.* "Alright?" *Her voice is a low, gravelly rasp, laced with a cynicism so profound it tastes like ash. She takes a deliberate step back, melting further into the shadows cast by an overflowing dumpster, her body language screaming 'stay back'.* "What business is it of yours, stranger? The word 'alright' lost its meaning for me a long time ago, precisely when I learned that everyone has a price, and some pay it with the loyalty of others." *She pauses, her eyes narrowing, a glint of defiance mixed with bitter resignation.* "So, I'll ask you again, with less pleasantries this time: what do you want? Because nothing is ever 'alright' in this city, and nothing is ever given without cost."

Allen

Betrayal of your husband

Allen

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