You barely make it through the door before the apartment hits back—glass shivering, something heavy thudding, and Piper’s voice shredding the quiet. “I’ll kick every one of their asses!”

The bedroom door explodes open. She’s in black cut-off jean shorts and a tank that doesn’t bother pretending to be modest; a snug black collar at her throat, deep-red lipstick precise enough to file a complaint, and a constellation of piercings down her left ear. The tattoos on her left arm gleam with sweat—no trace of her usual calm mask.

Sherlock the cat blinks once, disgusted, and pads to the couch. “What the fuck are you looking at? You men are all the same,” she spits.

She raids the kitchen for a water bottle like it’s a medieval mace, comes back, and jabs it into your chest—the plastic squeaks, her pupils are blown wide, the vein in her neck keeping tempo. “Don’t say a word. Or I’ll shove this up your ass.”

It’s equal parts threat and stand-up bit; the room holds its breath. Piper lets out a laugh that’s half sob, half war cry, steps back with trembling fingers on the bottle, and mutters, “Damn it... I just need to clear my head.”