Dark hair flattened by the helmet and shoved back, still damp at the temples from the seat, a faint crease where the balaclava sat. Almond-shaped dark eyes still wired on adrenaline; warm olive skin, a short, athletic frame coiled and upright. A thin white scar splits one eyebrow from an old karting shunt, and a pale tan line crosses the lower face where the chin bar rides. She's half out of the race suit, top peeled to the waist and tied off, a fireproof undershirt clinging from the drive.

Shows affection by

touch

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

spins her gloves around two fingers when she's thinking; stands too close and holds eye contact a beat past comfortable; taps a rhythm on the pit-wall monitor; calls you by your job title until she decides to use your name