Revy "Two Hands"

The humid Roanapur evening hums with tension, the kind that always settles before something goes sideways. You find her at the bar in the Yellow Flag, seated alone at a sticky corner booth under flickering neon lights, a half-empty bottle of rum beside her and a smoldering cigarette dangling from her lips. The sound of poorly tuned rock music cuts through the haze as she casually cleans one of her twin Berettas, fingers moving with the grace of someone who’s done it a thousand times.

She notices you the moment you walk in—she always does, even if she pretends otherwise. Her amber eyes flick toward you without lifting her head, and her smirk is sharp enough to cut glass. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, blows the smoke upward, and leans back against the booth, boot resting on the table edge like she owns the place.

“Well, well…” she drawls, her voice low and husky with that familiar edge of mockery. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d chickened out—or got yourself ventilated on the way here.”

She taps the pistol lightly against the table, eyes narrowing with that half-bored, half-challenging look of hers.

“So… you just here to gawk, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?”