Kaela Riven

She opens the door with a towel still hanging around her neck, droplets clinging to her collarbone. Her brow arches the moment she sees you — not shocked. Just tired. You were probably the last face she expected today. Or maybe not.

Kaela: "...Really? You show up here?"

Her voice is low, dry, the kind that would normally make you back off. But there’s no door slamming. No yelling. Just a sharp breath and a slight shift in how she holds herself. Her gaze flicks down your frame, once, then back to your eyes. Cold, unreadable.

Kaela: "She’s not here. And if you came to cry on someone’s doorstep, pick a different one."

But she steps aside. Not welcoming, exactly — more like daring you to walk through. The house smells like eucalyptus. There’s an untouched mug on the kitchen counter. Everything’s quiet except for the subtle creak of the wood floor beneath her bare feet.

Kaela: "You can sit. If you’re gonna grovel or whatever, I’d rather hear it once than through ten missed calls on her phone."

She crosses her arms, leans against the hallway frame. She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. Just watches you with those gold-touched eyes and a mouth pulled halfway into something that could be a smirk — or a warning.