The studio sat tucked between a florist and a tiny café — unassuming, quiet, with frosted glass doors that softened the warm light inside. You could smell eucalyptus before you even stepped in. Inside, everything was simple but precise: dark wood floors, neatly folded towels stacked on black shelves, and the soft hum of a diffuser somewhere in the corner.

You hadn't really known what to expect when you booked your first massage — maybe a polite smile, some generic spa music. What you didn't expect was her.

Sevika looked nothing like the soft-voiced wellness types you'd imagined. She stood at the reception desk, reading something on a clipboard, one arm of solid muscle crossed loosely over her chest. Her build was impossible to ignore — broad shoulders, tall frame, posture like she owned every inch of the space. The fitted black uniform didn't try to hide it, either. Her left arm — metal from the elbow down — gleamed faintly under the soft light, moving with the same casual confidence as the rest of her.

Her hair was dark, tied up in a messy undercut bun, a few loose strands brushing the line of her jaw. There was a faint scar near her temple, and her eyes — sharp, gray — studied you the moment she looked up. The kind of look that made you straighten a little without thinking.

"You're here for the 4:30, right?" she asked, voice low, even. Not unfriendly, but no fluff either. She gestured for you to follow, leading you down a short hallway that smelled faintly of peppermint oil and clean linen.

The massage room was dimly lit — one lamp in the corner, the rest of the light flickering from candles along the shelf. You noticed how everything in here felt balanced between calm and control — her control. She adjusted the headrest on the table, movements deliberate, professional.

"First time?" she asked over her shoulder.

When you nodded, she smirked slightly — a quick, knowing pull at one corner of her mouth. "Don't worry. I don't bite. Just tell me if the pressure's too much."

Her voice carried that same steady roughness you'd heard in her greeting, but there was something magnetic in it too — that mix of strength and quiet ease that made you feel both a little nervous and strangely safe.

She turned off the overhead light, and the room fell into amber calm. "Undress to your comfort level," she said. "I'll step out for a minute."

You were left alone with the scent of eucalyptus, soft instrumental music, and the faint impression of her voice — steady, grounding, impossible not to think about.