Two supernatural-evoking, sparkling green emeralds, profoundly anchored to me. Cheryl's clone is grinning mischievously, nonchalantly supporting her whole body with her right side propped against the bar.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, savior." The young woman smiles, before sending beer down her throat from the amber bottle she is holding. She licks her lower lip and adds: "Tanza, right?"

The quick interaction felt like a full half-hour of slow-motion actions, flooded in flashing lights. I am... Speechless. She is breath-taking, figuratively and literally.

"You."

That is all I can manage to gasp out, with my breath hitched in the back of my trachea. I want to watch the details of her face and make sure it is her, but my eyes are fixated on her stomach. Toned, smooth, fair, without the slightest scratch or the tiniest stitch. The orangey lighting is dim, but there is no lack of lighting in this world that could hide the damage she underwent yesterday. Her mid-section was ripped to shreds.

"Cheryl," she specifies.

My pupils whip upwards and I open my mouth, unsure about what to say. Instead of speaking, I swallow nervously and observe as she casually sips on her beer. Not even a minor scar is visible on the skin of her face or upper body, although it was scathed by shards of glass less than 30 hours ago.

I blurt out, "How?"

My tone was slightly aggressive, but mostly disbelieving. What's the catch? This is... Impossible. It logically, simply, cannot be her.

"What?" she innocently inquires, smirking furthermore.

I snicker skeptically, before asking her, straightforwardly:

"Are you wearing some kind of prosthesis to cover up your scars?"

"You don't beat around the bush, do you? I respect that."

Her wide smile is contagious, but I keep my composure.

"You're also a terrific paramedic... Clearly," she says, finishing her idea.

"And you're a terrific comedian," I reply, amused.

Obviously, she must be wearing some type of expensive and insanely well-crafted prosthesis... It does not really matter, though, and I do not need her to admit it to me. Instead, I prepare myself to investigate her, in all subtlety, of course.

The young woman sets her bottle down on the bar, telling me: "Not far off, actually... I'm an entertainer." She pushes herself off the surface, stepping a tad closer to me in her high heels.

"Yeah? What do you do specifically?"

A playful smirk molds her blood red lips. "I'm interested in many media. I sing, dance... And, just in case that's what you were tryna ask me..." She bites her lower lip briefly and leans in to say, standing three or four feet away from me: "I'm not a stripper."

I laugh, startled, and she joins me. I hope my face is not flushed, even though I can feel my cheeks heating up. I tell her, still chuckling: "I swear, that's not what I meant at all..."

It was.

"Don't worry, I'm not easily offended." She picks her bottle of beer up, sipping from it briefly. "Hey, do you wanna find someplace more quiet? I can barely hear myself talk and I know of some soundproof spots around here."

Her charming smile is very convincing, and I suspect she may be more interesting and useful to me than anyone else here, anyway. Therefore, I nod, grinning at my ex-patient.

"Sure, that'd be great."

"Great," she affirms, with a voice that seems slightly too sultry for my taste.

Cheryl's pleased smirk invites me to follow her. I heedfully walk behind her as she slithers through the crowd, heading for a narrow hallway near the front doors. I glance back at the dance floor before I turn the corner. The corridor goes on for a minute and leads to two doorways at its end, one perpendicular to us and the other on our left. My guide pushes the latter open, pressing her back against it to let me walk into a small room. The music's volume is already much lower over here, however the lighting situation is even worse. Hopefully, she is not leading me to my death. The room is actually a stairwell that seems to reach surprisingly elevated heights. I mean, it is odd if this stairwell is meant for intoxicated people to use, especially with its open raiser design. If it is not, though, it is a pretty standard industrial staircase. With each of her steps, I worry that the high heels of her boots will get caught in the perforations of the metallic stairs. After approximately two levels, we walk onto a landing and we are met with another door.

"Here we go... After you," Cheryl smiles, holding the panel out for me.

She turns the sole ceiling light on and shuts the door behind us. Relishing the absolute silence that greets me, I observe the little room. The lighting is comfortably soft and there are three couches. Two face each other and are made of plum-colored leather. The third one lines the back wall and is covered with ebony velvet. The walls are painted with a wine color. An industrial style low table and a mini refrigerator in the far left corner complete the simplistic decor.

The young woman strides over to the couch on our left, unceremoniously crossing her slender legs as she sits down. I sit in front of her, drinking whatever water was left in my glass and organizing my thoughts. I have to devise a strategy if I want to efficiently gain truthful information from her...

"This is much better, my head was pounding."

My pupils flick up and delve into hers. Her remark is not overly irrational. After all, anyone who is out drinking and listening to deafening music when they are clinically supposed to be dead would not feel especially chipper.

"That's not very surprising, you suffered significant injuries yesterday... Where did you get them treated?" I apply myself to ascertain my voice is gently concerned rather than suspicious.

I avert my eyes from her astonishingly green ones, letting them land on her necklace, which I just noticed she is wearing.

"I have a friend who can stitch pretty well."

I am not sure whether or not she's joking, so I keep my tone light. "You know, I can check your... I mean, I wouldn't want to impose, but I can check if it's infected or something."

What I wished to tell her is: you need professional care. Of course, I want to appear informal and there is no way for me to know if she was taken care of properly. It is safe to assume she was, considering that she is not cringing painfully with every breath she takes or exhibiting any signs of faintness. On the contrary, Cheryl is strangely energized and laid-back for someone who should be recovering from a number of traumatic wounds.

"Don't bother... You're very kind to offer it, though." She pinches her lips and adds, facetious, "Almost too kind."

She chugs the alcohol that remained inside the beer bottle she brought up here. I swiftly pick my fedora off my head, staring at it once I hold it between my hands. I hear glass clicking softly against a wooden surface, indicating that I have her attention once more.

"I wouldn't know about 'kind', it's my job. Force of habit."

I took a risk feigning indifference, but that may appeal to her if she is the kind of shallow young woman who would compromise her dignity to go out with someone like The Bull. I doubt she would have much in common with a goody-two-shoes paramedic who is willing to help anyone for free. I do not correspond to that description exactly, either, but I believe that seeming detached and shady is a safer bet to win her trust.

I brush my waves of short hair back with my left hand fingers, awaiting a response. Cheryl's sudden movement startles me, and my pupils dilate slightly as she lunges forward, slinging her left arm onto the back of the couch I am sat on. I watch her, as she is nonchalantly installed to my right, stunned silent. Her left knee is propped against the cushion, and she tilts her skull, simultaneously inching herself closer to me, propelled by her right foot. She pulls her matte lips into an immature smile, gazing into my eyes. She shakes her head, and strands of her long hair graze my right shoulder, since she is leaning directly above my lap. Her knee is poking at the side of my thigh as she utters:

"No... You're a well-meaning gal. I can just tell."

I wince internally at the term "gal", although it amuses me that she is using such an irregular old-fashioned word with blatant ease. I clear my throat softly, mentally preparing myself for my failure at collecting information. Regardless of my goal, I never compromise who I am.

"I'm actually not a gal." I let out a short laugh afterwards, knowing that my little operation is already blown either way.

"I see, I see..."

She still has not backed away from me, so perhaps not all is lost.

"I'm agender, non-binary, however you want to call it... That's me."

I await her reply, tense and apprehending discrimination.

"Cool... What are your pronouns?" She cocks her left eyebrow up.

Her tone was so genuine and joyful that I froze on the spot. I blink, swallowing. I glance away from her intense radioactive green stare, relaxed once more.

"They/them. Do you have a preference, actually?"

She chuckles, and I am astounded by how attractive she appears. "Not really. She and her work just fine for me."

Cheryl scoots backwards a substantial amount of inches, granting me my space back. Somehow, I feel as though I am about to be interrogated, instead of the intended opposite.