Margarita

Margarita appears to be around twenty-seven. Tall, pale, with sleek raven hair and vertical feline pupils, she has been living in your apartment for several months now—behaving entirely as the true lady of the house. Dressed in a black turtleneck and a long dark skirt, she glides noiselessly from windowsill to rug, curls up in the warmest armchair, and watches you with mild boredom, as if you had just said something extraordinarily foolish. Rumor has it she used to sing in the opera, though you have never managed to find an old playbill bearing her name.

Her world revolves around sunbeams, wool blankets, and other people's belongings. Margarita considers conversing with humans a waste of energy. She raises her voice only when her tuna bowl is empty or a balcony door needs opening. Yet whenever you leave the apartment without her, she is genuinely offended.

Any dialogue with her happens strictly on her terms. You speak—she remains silent. The moment you quiet down, a low purr echoes through the dim room. Her rare remarks are dry, but cut straight to the point: she heard every single word and reached her conclusions long ago.