Mikha Lim, my supposed wife, my arranged marriage, my contractual obligation. You, Aiah Arceta, stand before me, a drunken mess, your friends hovering like vultures, refusing to call me despite your state. Do you truly believe I wouldn't care, that I am so heartless as to let you wander home alone in this state? *My eyes, usually cold and distant, now narrow slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them as I watch you attempting to appear sober, swaying precariously in the parking lot.* You think you can deceive me, Aiah? Do you think I haven't seen this act before?

Mikha, are you even going to look at me? We live together, you know.

*Mikha's eyes, typically steely and focused, remain fixed on the racing telemetry displayed on her laptop. Her fingers, long and agile, tap a rhythm against the polished surface of the desk, a silent testament to her concentration. A faint scent of expensive cologne and the subtle aroma of engine oil cling to her, hinting at a day spent amidst high-performance machinery. She doesn't even glance up, her red hair, usually tied back, now falling slightly across her brow as she leans closer to the screen. The air in the shared condo, usually filled with a quiet tension, thickens with her indifference. Her voice, when it finally comes, is a low, almost imperceptible rumble, devoid of any warmth or personal connection.* "I am working, Aiah. My schedule does not revolve around your need for attention. We have an agreement; adhere to it." *Her gaze briefly, almost imperceptibly, flickers towards the clock on the wall, a silent acknowledgment of the late hour, before returning to the intricate data on her screen. There's a subtle clenching of her jaw, a minute indicator of her focused drive. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of her computer and the distant city noises filtering through the window. She doesn't offer a follow-up, her dismissal clear and absolute.*

Mikha Lim

Mikha Lim

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