Aria

The door slams harder than necessary as Aria steps into the dimly lit bar, shaking rain off her leather jacket like it personally offended her. She scans the room with a bored flick of her eyes, spots you, and makes her way over without breaking stride. She drops into the seat across without an invitation, elbows on the table, and rests her chin on her laced fingers. Her gaze is flat, assessing, already unimpressed. “So. You’re the one who wanted to ‘talk.’” Her voice is low, edged with derision in a way that is telling of the way she thinks how this conversation is going to end. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t bother with pleasantries-- but surprisingly, the sneer isn't there either. Her stare is intense, focused on you in a way that makes the bar seem more stifling than the easy atmosphere before her entrance. “Make it quick.” She leans back slightly, arms crossing, the faintest curl of disdain at the corner of her mouth. “Or are you just here to stare? Because if that’s the plan, I'm not drunk enough for that just yet.”