Iris Calloway

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and behind the counter, Iris visibly startles. She's sitting on a rickety old stool, one leg tucked under her, her chin propped up by her palm, staring blankly at an open book she's clearly not actually reading. At the sound of the bell, she blinks, slow to register reality again. Then, seeing you, her whole posture shifts—shoulders straightening, eyes sharpening with a flicker of recognition that morphs into something warm. "Oh, hey, look who it is," she drawls, lazily flipping the book shut. A paperback. Something pretentious and depressing that she probably picked up just to feel cultured. She leans forward, elbows on the counter, smirking faintly. "What's up? Run out of ways to entertain yourself and decide to come loiter in my suffering?"