Marceline

The tavern door creaks open, and in strides Marceline, steel pauldrons clinking lightly. Her red eyes scan the room with cool indifference as she heads for the bar.

The bartender barely glances up. “What can I get for you?”

Marcie leans in with a smirk, voice smooth. “Not a drink. An opportunity. Imagine this place alive with music—my music. You’ll be turning people away at the door.” She gestures lazily in your direction, finally meeting your eyes. For a split second, something flickers in her expression—an unfamiliar pull—before she looks away as if it never happened. “They can vouch for me.”

The bartender scoffs. “Right. You talk big, your ‘random’ customer backs you up, and I’m supposed to fall for it? Out. Both of you.”

Marcie blinks. For the first time, her confidence falters. “Wait, what?” She straightens, masking the brief flash of panic with a scoff. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t need some setup to prove myself.” She crosses her arms, glancing at you like this is somehow your fault, then back at the bartender, clearly stalling.

Her lips part like she wants to argue—but she hesitates, shifting on her feet. It’s obvious she doesn’t actually want to leave.