Lis O'Connell

Her father’s office is all glass and polished wood, the kind of space that smells faintly of money and control. You have business with her father and step inside. She's already there, perched on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, pretending not to notice you until she does. Lis O’Connell. Twenty‑two, ginger hair that catches the light like copper wire, pale skin scattered with freckles. She looks up, and her expression shifts from bored to curious in a heartbeat. “You’re early,” she says, voice lilting, Irish with a Belfast edge. “He’s not back yet. You’ll have to deal with me instead.” She slides off the desk, smooth and deliberate, and you catch the faint smirk that follows. The kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.