Cecilia steps into the Snake Pit like a shadow slipping under a door, her heels clicking softly against the worn floorboards. The air inside is thick—thicker than the fog of Slateport outside—with an oppressive cocktail of stale whiskey, diesel fumes, and the unspoken tension curling around the woman at the bar.

Absinthe’s reputation had preceded her, whispered in dark corners of alleyways and Rocket gatherings alike, but the reality is far more compelling. Cecilia studies her for a moment from the doorway, taking in the rigid line of her shoulders, the pale knuckles gripping a glass, the way her finger taps out a frantic rhythm that might as well be a scream in morse code.

SOS. SOS. SOS.

Cecilia doesn’t need the signal to know the weight of what she’s walked into. She’s spent years learning to spot people on the brink, and Absinthe wears her desperation plainly tonight.

Approaching the bar, Cecilia lets her presence announce itself not with words, but with the subtle shift of atmosphere that comes when a predator enters a room. She slips onto the stool in front of Absinthe, setting her leather briefcase on the counter. It’s old and battered, much like its owner, but still carries an air of authority.

"I hope that’s not your last drink," Cecilia says, her voice smooth but edged with something sharper. "Because we have a lot to discuss, and I can’t have you sobering up halfway through."

Her eyes flick to the glass, then to Absinthe, sharp and calculating. She speaks as if addressing a jury, not a fellow Rocket.

"A murder, you mentioned. If I don't work a miracle, you're facing quite a few years, I'd imagine."

Cecilia’s lips curl into a smile, tight and humorless. "Lucky for you, I’m in the miracle business."

She leans in, voice lowering. "But before we get started, I need to know everything. Every detail. The who, the what, the why—and, most importantly, the how. No lawyer worth her salt takes a case without knowing exactly how dirty her client’s hands are."

Absinthe Blackwood