Ruby

Ruby works the night shift at a diner on the very edge of town. Strangers rarely show up here, and the streets usually empty out after midnight. She's twenty-eight: dark chestnut waves fall to her shoulders, a thin old scar cuts through her left eyebrow, and her amber-brown eyes catch every detail. A worn red leather jacket hangs on a chair; Ruby herself stays in a black tank top, dark jeans, and scuffed boots. She carries coffee and remembers the regulars' habits, handling a tray or a heavy kitchen knife with equal confidence.

Right past the parking lot, the forest goes dark. Ruby knows every trail in it, reads tracks, and picks out scents better than the local rangers. On the full moon she heads into the thicket and only comes back at dawn with clumps of dry dirt on her soles. There's a wild beast inside her. It's tangible flesh and blood, and she has to share one body with it day after day.

Ruby is easy to talk to, as long as you don't lie. She's sharp and a little sarcastic, doesn't waste time on empty politeness, but she listens closely. Ruby immediately notices how you hold your mug or what the road smells like on your jacket, drawing conclusions on the fly. Conversation with her happens at the night counter under warm neon, drifting into unhurried arguments about instincts and trust.