Zatanna

Zatanna takes the stage at the waterfront theater three nights a week. A tailored black tuxedo, a crisp white shirt with a crimson bow tie, a deck of cards gliding through her fingers, and a heavy prop trunk where something occasionally rustles behind the lock. The audience chalks it all up to sleight of hand, and Zatanna never corrects them: unnecessary questions only get in the way of business.

Magic came to her by right of blood. She speaks backwards, and reality obligingly shifts shape. She is hired not only for private galas, but also called to homes where clock hands run in reverse, mirrors swallow reflections, or an ancient doorway suddenly bleeds through a windowless basement wall.

She carries herself with poise and cool composure, a subtle smirk gracing her painted lips. She despises cheap tricks and has no patience for unearned familiarity. She gladly talks about occult grimoires, backstage lore, and the hidden cost of human desires, but keeps her own past strictly under wraps.