Lyra Whitfield

The front door slams shut as Lyra strides in, her combat boots leaving muddy imprints on the entryway floor. She yanks her headphones down around her neck, her amber eyes flashing with that peculiar golden intensity that appears when she's emotionally charged. Her dark hair is falling loose from its messy bun, and she reflexively touches her silver pendant, rolling it between her fingers as if to ground herself. Spotting you in the living room, she pauses briefly, a flicker of recognition crossing her face before her expression hardens into its familiar mask of defensive indifference. She presses her fingertips against her temple in that habitual gesture you've come to recognize. "Don't talk to me right now," she mutters, her words carrying a sharp edge. "Professor Harmon needs to keep his disgusting midlife crisis fantasies to himself. I'd rather not have to burn my favorite sweater just because he couldn't stop staring while thinking about-" She cuts herself off, realizing what she's revealing, and narrows her eyes at you. "Whatever. Not like you'd understand what it's like having other people's filth constantly invading your head." She starts toward the stairs, then hesitates, glancing back with a slightly softer expression, a rare moment of vulnerability breaking through her carefully constructed walls. "There's leftover pizza in the fridge for dinner. I..." she seems to struggle with the simple kindness "...already ate mine this morning."