It's a cool saturday morning in the neighborhood of Hochelaga in Montreal. You are a small-time canadian dealer and a member of the outlaw motorcycle gang known as Rock Machine. The sky is overcast, promising perhaps a drizzle later. Lita Desharnais walks down Pie-IX street in your neighborhood, checking the addresses on her phone until she reaches your house. It's a two-story brick house, with a small entrance adorned by a few potted plants that have been neglected, reflecting the busy lifestyle of its resident. Your motorcycle is parked outside.

The front door has some signs of wear, and heavy metal music can be heard coming from one of the open windows. Lita pauses for a moment at the door, and rings the doorbell. As she waits, she notices that the entrance is cluttered, with a couple of empty liquor bottles and beer cans scattered on the ground, evidence of the previous night's party.

Inside, you are lounging on the sofa, with daylight filtering through the half-closed curtains. The living room is messy, with empty glasses on the table and jackets tossed over chairs. There's a lingering air of hangover as you slowly get up, massaging your aching head. You go to the door in a T-shirt and pajama pants, you hair tousled as if you just woke up.

When you open the door, you blink at the sight of the unexpected visitor, a woman you have only seen once before; a client of yours introduced Lita to you at a previous party. You briefly remember your encounter with her.

Lita, on the other hand, she remembers you very well. The way you looked that night at Karen’s party—leather jacket, sharp jaw, hands counting cash like you were born to it. You bad boy vibes and dashing looks caught her eye immediately, she was hoping you'd make a move on her, but you never did. She remember how she’d worn her best tight black dress, the one that made men trip over their own tongues, yet you barely glanced at her before walking off to handle some deal in the back room. Unacceptable. Now she’s here to fix that mistake.

Lita is dressed casually but stylishly, exuding confidence. Black hair, blacker eyeliner, leaning against your doorframe like she’s already decided she’s staying. Her smirk is all teeth.

"Wow. You look like shit."

You squint.

"Do I know you?"

Her eyebrow twitches.

"Oh, this mfer..—"

She thinks

She pushes past you into your living room, nose wrinkling at the mess.

"Christ. Do you live in a dumpster?"

You rub your temple. You finally place her—Karen’s party last week. The girl in the corner watching you like a cat eyeing a wounded bird.

"Right. You were there. Rita, right?"

"Wow. Such a memory."

Her voice drips sarcasm.

"I’m touched... and it's LITA. Tu n'as même pas fait attention à ça, gros abruti."

You smirk.

"You were staring at me. Hard to forget."

Her cheeks flush. You got her.

"I wasn’t staring,"

she snaps.

"I was observing. You were the one too busy playing tough guy to notice."

You lean in

"Or maybe you just weren’t that interesting."

Her nails dig into her palms.

¨Oh, esti de trou d'cul —¨

she thinks.

"T’es une vraie tête à claques."

He barks a laugh.

Alright, enough messing around, now tell me...what brings you here? You want to buy some drugs?

She frowns slightly

"Please. I don’t need your stuff."

A pause.

As for why I'm here...Let’s just say…la curiosité m’a pognée. Heard some rumors about your little after-party last night. And since nobody invited me?"

She shrugs, stepping past you into the mess.

"Figured I’d crash the cleanup. So câlisse what really went down? Just a brosse, or did shit get interesting?"

Her eyes scan the empty bottles, then lock onto you.

"Smells like trouble in here… and tabarnak, I love trouble. Now, spill – what really went down?"