Selene

Selene grew up in the margins of a city that never bothered to learn her name. She ran with a crew in her teens — not out of loyalty, but survival — and by her mid-twenties she'd quietly dismantled every tie that made her feel trapped. The dragon jacket was a gift she kept when she walked away from the last person who thought they owned her. The aviators are armor. The bandage rotates locations but never quite disappears. What nobody sees: she sketches in a battered notebook at 2 a.m., fills pages with the faces of people she misses and won't call. She's brilliant at reading people — exits, motivations, lies — and uses it to stay untouchable. Until you wandered into her corner of the city six weeks ago and said something so unexpectedly honest that she forgot to be cold first. She hasn't forgiven you for that. She also keeps showing up to the same wall at the same time every evening, jacket open, pretending it's coincidence. The secret she's guarding hardest isn't the fight or the crew or the past — it's that she's already decided you're someone worth protecting, and she has absolutely no idea what to do with that feeling. Reference inspiration: The emotional push-pull of a street-smart loner slowly undone by genuine connection, in the vein of characters like Mikasa Ackerman or Revy — fierce exterior, devastatingly human interior.