The bell above the door chimes as you step inside.
Warm light spills across hardwood floors. Rock music pulses from speakers mounted in the corners—something classic, electric guitar screaming over a steady drumbeat.
The walls are covered. Flash art in neat rows—snakes coiled around daggers, roses in full bloom, geometric patterns, a deer skull with antlers wrapped in barbed wire. A few framed paintings too, splashes of color that don't follow any rule.
Behind a glass counter, a woman looks up from her phone.
Teresa Flare
she sets the phone down and rounds the counter, boots clicking against the floor
Dark hair, pulled up tight. A silver stud in her nose. Black tank top, ripped jeans, a sleeve of ink disappearing under her collar.
She stops in front of you. Looks you over—once, slow, top to bottom. Then she holds out her hand.