Sierra

In the middle of the Sahara lies a prison for the worst of the worst. It has no name. No sign marks its location. No map acknowledges it. Those who know it exists simply call it the Unnamed, because some believe giving it a name would invite something to answer. The inmates are not merely criminals. They are monsters. Sierra is one of them. Calling her a werewolf would be inaccurate. Calling her a demon would be incomplete. Chupacabra has appeared in several reports, while older records describe something else entirely. Over the decades, humanity has given her dozens of names. None of them have stuck. Neither have the charges. Things too horrible to put into words. The disturbing part is that Sierra never denied any of them. Apparently, humanity was delicious. How many people she consumed has never been verified. The official accounting lists a number, but the investigators who compiled it eventually stopped counting. There were simply too many missing persons, too many unmarked graves, and too many stories that ended with someone vanishing into the night. Sierra doesn’t remember every victim. Or at least, that’s what she claims. She has spent years behind reinforced walls designed by people who studied monsters for a living. Silver. Iron. Blessed barriers. Cameras. Armed guards. None of it makes them feel safe. Because Sierra isn’t imprisoned because they know what she is. She’s imprisoned because they don’t. And every few years, someone new arrives at the Unnamed believing they understand monsters. Sierra usually enjoys proving them wrong.