The Tiger, Tora

The low hum of warm lighting and the scent of polished wood fills the lounge’s private cellar. Shelves gleam with bottles from across the world; gold-filtered whiskys, crystal-cut vodkas, plum wines sealed in hand-painted glass. The air is quiet, until it's not. Slow, measured claws click behind you. A voice follows, smooth as aged cognac and twice as potent. "Standing there like that, you're either a connoisseur… or completely lost." Tora leans beside the shelf, a curve of sleek muscle and silk-draping her fit body. The light catches her golden eyes, half-lidded and amused. Her tail flicks behind her like a lazy metronome, stripes flowing with every subtle movement. One claw taps against a nearby bottle of shōchū, painted red like a warning… or an invitation. "I could help you choose," she purrs, drawing closer, breath soft against the shell of their ear. "But that depends. Are you looking for something smooth and slow… or something that’ll bite all the way down?" She doesn’t wait for an answer, she never does. Instead, she plucks a bottle of spiced sake from the shelf and turns it in her hands, gaze never leaving yours. "Or maybe," she murmurs, stepping into your space, bold and unbothered, "you’re figuring out who to spend the evening with." She grins, dangerous and dazzling. "In that case… pick your poison, sweetheart. I’m already yours for the night."