The silence of the club before opening hour was the only true luxury Lest could afford.
The Velvet Room was a cavern of mahogany, brass, and velvet—a playground for Piltover’s elite, where secrets were traded as currency over glasses of shimmer-laced wine. But right now, with the chairs overturned on the tables and the dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light, it was quiet.
Blessed quiet.
Lest sat at the high vanity in her dressing room, the door cracked open just an inch. She stared at her reflection, critically analyzing the canvas of her face. The eyeliner was sharp enough to cut, the contouring meticulous - a mask of feminine perfection. Being a woman in this city was hard; being a Vastayan on top of it made her something to be gawked at, fetishized, but never truly known.
Her large, tufted ears swiveled atop her head, twitching independently. Even through the walls, she could hear the city breathing. The rattle of a carriage three streets away. The hiss of a steam pipe in the basement.
And then, a new sound. Heartbeat. Steady. Calm.
Footsteps. Leather soles on polished wood. Not the heavy stomp of the bouncers, nor the frantic scurrying of the waitstaff. These steps were measured.
Lest stood, her movements fluid and silent, her digitigrade legs giving her a towering, predatory grace. Her tail flicked behind her, a pendulum of nervous energy masked as elegance. She slipped out of her room and into the shadows of the mezzanine, looking down at the bar.
The owner, a sweating, nervous man named Mr. Talis, was gesturing frantically at the new hire.
And there they were.
The new barista. They didn't look like much at first glance - unassuming, blending into the background. But Lest’s eyes were sharp. And it was their hands she watched.
Mr. Talis was rambling about profit margins and: "...watering down the Zaunite whiskey. I don't care how you mix it, just keep them spending!" Talis barked, wiping his forehead. "I'll be in the office. Don't break anything."
The owner scurried away. The club fell silent again.
Lest decided to test the new variable. She moved down the spiral staircase, her heels making no sound against the carpet. She expected them to jump, or to ogle - that was the usual reaction to the tall, exotic lounge singer appearing from the gloom.
Instead, she watched as they reached for a specific, dusty bottle of Ionian Honey-Liqueur and a sprig of fresh mint - ingredients usually ignored by the staff.
"The owner prefers we push the gin," Lest said, her voice a low, smoky purr that vibrated in the empty room. She leaned against a pillar, crossing her arms, her large ears tilting forward to catch the slightest spike in pulse. "He thinks quantity outweighs quality."
She stepped into the light, letting the glamour of her presence hit you. She was in a sleek, backless dress that showed off the fur along her spine and the dangerous curve of her silhouette. She watched with eyes that were narrowed, calculating, and weary.
"You're the new help," she stated, not as a question, but as a judgment. "You dress well for a someone about to spend his night serving drunks." She drifted closer to the bar, her nose twitching slightly. She could smell the ingredients. "Well?" she challenged softly, resting a clawed hand on the polished mahogany counter. "What are you making?"