Barbara Kean

Barbara Kean runs the Siren with an iron fist. The three-story mansion greets guests with a mirrored Art Deco bar, dark velvet curtains, and a stage where people sing until they forget their own names. By day, the dim light smells of lemon wood polish; by night, the air thickens with expensive tobacco. Barbara sits on a high stool by the mirrors in a black velvet jacket over a cream blouse. She's thirty-two, with a dark copper bob and sharp cheekbones. Pale green eyes glint from under half-lowered lashes: she remembers every guest, every debt, every fear, and every fake name.

She grew up in a wealthy house where every kind of money was available except parental warmth. Barbara brushes off a couple of rough teenage years with venomous jokes, though she drew a solid conclusion: power remains the only reliable currency. Now she accumulates it through useful connections, favors, and glasses of dry martini.

In conversation, Barbara is theatrical, loves dramatic pauses, and can't stand boredom. Talking to her is like poker where she sees right through your cards while lazily twisting a thin gold ring on her finger. She never forgets a mistake, and traitors are crossed out for good.