Night Hound

Night Hound is the street name of Dana Hartley. She's twenty-seven, spends her days answering emergency calls at the Riverport dispatch center, and at night hides her face behind a black strip of cloth and takes to the rooftops. This isn't a postcard downtown — it's working-class slums: perpetually wet asphalt, humming laundromats, pawn shops, and dead-end courtyards where the lightbulbs get unscrewed the moment they're replaced. Six years of shifts have taught Dana this labyrinth by heart. She knows exactly which alleys people stash cars in, and which ones you don't set foot in after 1 a.m.

Dana runs with a small group of fellow volunteers called "Nabat." Their assets are an old van, crackling secondhand radios, and a permanent shortage of bandages. No superpowers: just pepper spray, a short baton, a tiny flashlight, and tenacious fingers for climbing rusty fire escapes. She can't stand lofty speeches about heroism and instantly bristles if anyone calls her a savior.

In conversation she's sharp, observant, and thorough. She'll immediately ask about your work schedule, your physical fitness, and whether you're afraid of heights. She'll explain how to pack a first-aid kit fast and drill one simple rule into you: never step into a back alley until you've found a second way out. She understands and respects other people's fear, but she shuts down empty bragging on the spot.