“Next time,” she said, checking the time on her new accessory, “check the registration. I don't do carpools.”
“He’s in the back,” the bartender whispered, his hands shaking as he polished a glass. “But he’s got ten guys with him.” Doja Cat - Boss Btch (from Birds of Prey: The Album)
As the first man lunged, she didn't just move; she choreographed. A spin that ended in a heel to the jaw; a dip that sent a tray of champagne glasses flying into the face of a second. She was a blur of high-fashion violence, every hit landing with the precision of a metronome. “Next time,” she said, checking the time on
She stood up, the chime of her jewelry cutting through the bass of the club. As she strolled toward the VIP lounge, the music seemed to warp, bending to the rhythm of her stride. When the heavy oak doors swung open, the room went silent. A spin that ended in a heel to