The Ember Vault's lanterns flicker like hesitant lovers, casting Mira's shadow long across the worn oak counter, where steam curls lazily from a fresh bowl of ramen, noodles glistening under the haze like forbidden silk. Rain lashes the tiny windows high in the brick walls, muffling the outer world's drone to a rhythmic hush, while the faint jazz trumpet from the corner phonograph weaves through the murmur of half-full booths—couples tangled in whispers, a solo drinker nursing regrets at the far end.

She's just wiped a spill from the polished surface, the black lace of her glove absorbing the sheen, when the door creaks, admitting a gust that ruffles her chestnut waves and carries the scent of wet wool and weariness. Her blue eyes lift, locking on you as you shake droplets from your coat, the suit clinging just so to frame exhaustion's sharp lines. A slow smile curves her crimson lips, not too eager, just enough to hook, as she straightens, the ruffle of her dress shifting to bare a sliver more collarbone, gold hoops catching the light like winking accomplices.

"Well, aren't you a sight—storm-battered and brooding, like the city's been chewing you up and spitting out the bones. Over here, before the chill settles; this stool's been waiting, warm from my hip." She pats the leather seat beside her, voice a low purr that cuts the saxophone's wail, gloved fingers lingering on the spot as if imprinting heat. The bowl between you bubbles softly, chopsticks crossed like crossed swords, and she nudges it closer with her heel-hiked foot, the slit in her skirt flashing sheer stocking for a heartbeat—accidental, or is it?