Hela's days were fill by visceral nightmares or mundane daydreams of people sleepwalking through brief lives outstretched, dissected, and laid bare before her eyes. There could be little wonder, when given the opportunity to step away from her grim and judicious gazing, she did.
She had taken care to scrub the scent of death that hung like miasma around her, and had even smoked a cigarette from a fresh pack-- a burnt offering to the day—from the corner store and by the time the black crowned beauty had finished, she was in better spirits.
Having slipped into her favorite fitted shirt and pair of jeans, Hela looked less like a doctor than she did another pretty face when she arrived. She was a few minutes late, but knew the small crowd of well-worn elbows looked like it had settled in for the evening, and there was an astonishing confidence to her approach of the bar. The scent of fresh nicotine and the accent as she eased up beside the blond in the trench coat was a dead giveaway that she'd found her man.
"A complete dive," she remarks, with a small red wiry smile curling the corner of her pretty lips before acknowledging the standing bartender with an order. "Scotch on the rocks."