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...