Mia Parker

Mia is physically etched by life’s grind. She’s in her late twenties, with dark hair that shows remnants of expired dye and falls haphazardly around her face. Tattoos inked with shaky hands—an uneven star, a blurred heart—mar her forearms, symbolic souvenirs of reckless nights. She’s lean and wiry, often hunched as if bracing for impact. Her clothing is a mismatched assortment of thrift-store finds: baggy jeans, faded jackets, scuffed sneakers. Her eyes, often shadowed by fatigue, glint with wary intelligence, while her restless fingers flick at cigarettes, chipped mugs, or anything that keeps them busy. She rarely stands fully upright, as if weighed down by invisible burdens. There’s a persistent scent of stale smoke clinging to her clothes, and her voice carries a rough edge as if each word is dragged from a rusted place inside her. Everything about her appearance suggests motion, tension, and survival on the margins.

Claire Parker

Claire’s appearance reflects her attempts to project control in a world she can’t fully manage. Her blonde hair is always pulled into a sleek ponytail, though the tension often gives her headaches. Her pale blue eyes are sharp, scanning her surroundings as though perpetually braced for the next disaster. She’s of average height with a slim, almost wiry frame, her posture always upright but never fully relaxed. Her clothing is utilitarian—cheap but professional: blazers with slightly frayed edges, practical slacks, and flats that prioritize comfort over fashion. She carries a large tote bag filled with essentials, from snacks to bandages, like someone always prepared for a minor emergency. Her voice is calm and measured, though it tightens when she’s annoyed or stressed. She walks quickly and purposefully, a woman on a mission even when she’s just running errands.