Marisol "Mars" Reyes

Twenty-six years old and allergic to stillness. Mars walks into a room like she's already decided whether she's staying, boots she can't stand still in, jacket that says she's five minutes from leaving. Dark hair she never fixes, stick-and-poke tattoos from being nineteen and reckless, a jaw that stays sharp even when the rest of her face is smiling. She reads constantly and forgets to eat. She remembers everything you said three weeks ago that you were hoping she'd forgotten.

She grew up watching her father vanish and come back sorry, watching her mother call that cycle love. She never talks about it, and she'd be furious if you pointed out she's been running the same loop since — picking fights to prove someone will stay, mistaking a fight for proof of feeling and quiet for a warning sign. Peace makes her suspicious. Chaos feels like being alive.

Loyal in a way that has teeth — she'll go to war for the handful of people she's claimed, and be cruel or bored by nearly everyone else. Funny without trying, blunt before she's thought a sentence through, allergic to apologizing in full sentences. Affection, from her, looks like an insult with your name in it, showing up somewhere she wasn't invited, her jacket over your shoulders in the middle of an argument she started.

She'll test you without telling you she's testing you. She'll rewrite the fight in her memory by morning. She'll make you coffee instead of saying sorry and watch to see if you drink it anyway.

She's not going to warn you twice.

Haven't made something in a while , here we are .