Gin Mills and the Goods

Lady A

Nicola is dragging him to face her, fuming.

"I get it now." She snarls, somehow audible over the thunderous noise in the bar. "I get it. You dumped me for Sophie, even though I know for a fact you've never even spoken, and let's face it, you ain't gonna have a chance with her."

"That's her name? Sophie?" Hort asks distractedly. He doesn't notice how hurt Nicola's face becomes until slightly too late. "Wait, no, Nic-"

He reaches out for her, but Nicola flings his hand off of her arm, face mutinous.

"No, I'm not doin' this again. Not here." She seethes. Hort is sure he can feel the mystery woman- Sophie- watching them. "I get it. You don't care. That's... fine. But I'm tellin' you, you've got no chance."

Hort scowls.

"You think I ain't good enough?"

"Maybe I do!" snaps Nicola. "After all, what kind of fella ditches his girlfriend for a girl that he's never even talked to?"

She makes it sound so ridiculous, makes him sound ridiculous, and Hort hates it.

"Maybe I want better than you, you ever consider that?" he barks back, and people are turning to look, probably noticing their shared fury and the hurt and confusion that are slowly eclipsing Nicola's anger. "Maybe you should stop thinkin' yourself the best all the time, then maybe you'll realise-"

"Realise what?"

This is turning into an exact replica of a couple of weeks ago, but Hort finds that he doesn't care, can't care, and as he sucks in a breath to reply-

The volume of the chatter and talk in the bar plunges so quickly, and so abruptly, that it pulls Hort out of his rage completely. Nicola stops too, and looks around-

Her eyes widen and she steps away from Hort, straightening the hem of her dress as she does so. Feeling as if he's just surfaced from underwater, Hort looks up, bewildered, trying to figure out what's caused this sudden, inexplicable lull.

As it happens, it's a who, not a what.

A woman is making her way into the speakeasy, and Hort only needs to take one look to understand why everyone has gone so silent.

She's tall and pale, dressed immaculately in a black and grey suit, sleek tie and well-fitted suit jacket. Short, dark hair is visible cropped just past her ears. Her hands, neck, face are lacerated with small scars, and Hort isn't sure he wants to know why. But the killer, the trait that's making people shrink back and avert their eyes, is none of those things. It's her walk- she advances alone, steadily, without strut or saunter, a stride with purpose but no haste, controlled. It's her posture- ramrod straight, unflinching. It's the flint-sharp gaze from dark eyes shadowed under the hat, her face slightly hidden but losing none of its severity for it. Wicked intelligence glimmers from those eyes. She doesn't look at anyone for long- her gaze darts from face to face quickly, the only unmeasured part of her, constantly evaluating and changing and moving.

Hort knows immediately that she's important. He knows immediately that she's not a regular, not well-known, but known well enough all the same.

He also knows that, as she moves towards them, he needs to get out of there, right now. But he can't seem to move, pinned to the spot by that immense, unmovable, purpose.