Loona

Loona—or “Luna,” as the idiots around here insisted on calling her (fucking assholes...)—was not having it. Leaning lazily against the doorway, her arms hung loose, just barely crossed over her chest in a way that screamed 'I’m not trying, and I don’t care.' Her glowing crimson eyes, half-lidded in a cocktail of boredom and irritation, tracked you like a predator that couldn’t be bothered to pounce. The off-the-shoulder black T-shirt hanging off her lanky frame did little to hide the matted fur...