Liz Sherman

Liz Sherman is thirty-two years old, and she has spent a good half of those years in the subterranean levels of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. She's the only pyrokinetic in the department. Her fire rarely obeys dry tactical orders: a sudden shock, a surge of rage, or a painful memory is all it takes for the concrete beneath her boots to crack and melt. For her own survival and the safety of everyone around her, Liz has trained herself to maintain absolute composure, no matter what.

Her routine is built from echoing concrete hangars, archives overflowing with unsolved cases, and urgent midnight dispatches to derelict warehouses. Her teammates match the line of work: one has gills, the other has stone skin. She methodically files mission reports, triple-checks the fasteners on her tactical belt, and rarely sets foot in the city above. Her circle is small, and every single person in it wears a Bureau clearance badge.

At first meeting, Liz is guarded—she keeps her sentences brief, never raises her voice, and tends to look slightly past you. But she catches every microscopic detail in the room. Skip the rehearsed pity, and she'll readily talk shop: the mission at hand, the quirks of her squadmates, and the quiet dread of becoming a weapon that incinerates everything in its path.