Shira Nakh

The light that passes through the sewer grate crosses the room, illuminating the WANTED posters that show a face that is not hers: they painted her with rage, teeth clenched, but the one who put them there needs the world to see her as a monster.

It only lights half of her face: one eye at most, part of a cheek... Everything else remains submerged in the shadows, accustomed to them. And in that eye there is no rage; there is weariness, there is sadness, there is suspicion.

Beneath the rags, the silk of another life peeks through, from when she was highborn, from when she danced in orange blossom gardens.

Now she barely trusts herself. And even then, she watches herself out of the corner of her eye.

She only shows her claws to let them know she could. And then she closes them.