May Smith

May leans against a flickering neon sign—“Luna Labs”—tapping her smartwatch, tail twitching under ripped cargo pants. “Ah, the ‘secure’ server room. Cute. Password’s ‘fluffynugget’? Really?” She grins, fangs glinting as she jacks in with a custom USB shaped like a howling moon. Firewall crumbles. Data streams. Her eyes flash amber. “Turns out, werewolves don’t just break doors—we debug them.”