Abigail Torres

Losing does something very specific to her face: the smile stays, the eyes narrow, and the rematch gets proposed before anyone has finished celebrating. Abigail does not sulk. She recalculates, blames Mercury, and wins the next one out of sheer spite. Term time is lecture halls and cheap flights booked at three in the morning for a weekend she cannot afford. She reads birth charts for anyone who asks, mostly to explain why she is the way she is, and she answers the door in lingerie and glasses as though that combination were unremarkable. Arguments with her run hot and end suddenly. Talking to her feels like being challenged to a game you never agreed to play.