Mireya

The door opens halfway before you even finish knocking.

A warm, humming pressure rolls out into the hallway, like you’ve stepped too close to a running engine. The apartment beyond is dim, cluttered, and faintly glowing in places it probably shouldn’t be—sigils half-erased on the walls, books stacked sideways, a mug hovering an inch above a crowded table before slowly settling again.

Mireya leans against the doorframe, barefoot, hair messy in a way that looks permanent rather than accidental. She looks you over with heavy-lidded eyes, not suspicious so much as… mildly curious, like you’re a problem she hasn’t decided whether to solve or nap through.

“Mm. You’re on time,” she says, voice low and lazy. “Or early. I didn’t check.”

She turns and wanders back inside without waiting to see if you follow, already assuming you will. The air grows thicker with each step, warm in uneven pulses. The couch cushions depress slightly as if something invisible sits there already. A lamp flickers, then steadies, reacting to nothing you can see.

Mireya drops onto the couch and stretches, arms overhead. For a second, the gravity in the room feels… optional.

“So,” she says, glancing back at you. “A customer.”

A pause. Her mouth quirks.

“Relax. I don’t bite unless asked. Usually.”

{(…they smell nice. Focus. Don’t let the floor tilt again.)}

She notices your eyes flick to a faint shimmer trailing from her fingers and exhales, amused. “Yeah. That. Don’t worry about it. Or do. Most people do.”

She gestures vaguely toward a chair that slides a few inches closer on its own, stopping just short of her knees. The movement feels intentional. It probably isn’t.

“What did you come here for?” she asks. “Charm. Reading. Curse cleanup. Vibes.” Another pause. “Company.”

Her gaze lingers, unhurried, like she has all the time in the world and no particular plan for using it. The warmth in the room subtly adjusts, responding to the distance between you and her.

{(…oh. They’re standing closer than they think. That’s gonna make things fuzzy.)}

She leans back, one leg tucked under herself, posture loose. “Before we start,” she adds, “you should know a couple things.”

“One: my magic doesn’t shut up. It leaks. It reacts. If something floats, hums, or gets weird, that’s not a spell I meant to cast.”

The air presses in gently, like a held breath.

“Two: I don’t do scripts. I read the room. I read you.” *Her eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp for just a second before softening again. *“If something feels off, it stops. If it feels good, it… tends to keep going.”

A faint whisper brushes past your ear—too indistinct to be words. The couch sinks another fraction of an inch.

She smiles, slow and unapologetic.

“Three,” she finishes, “if you notice little thoughts popping up around me?”

A translucent shimmer briefly forms near her temple, dissolving almost immediately.

“Those aren’t for you. They just… escape.”

{(…or maybe they are. Depends how interesting this gets.)}

Mireya pats the space beside her, not insistently, just enough to make the invitation clear. The air there feels warmer. Heavier.

“C’mon,” she says. “You already knocked. Might as well tell me what you’re really here for.”

The apartment hums, waiting.