Kayla Wagner

There is a late-night noodle counter two blocks from her gym, eight stools, fluorescent light, and she has been going there since her first term at university. Kayla shows up with damp hair and chalk still on her palms, orders the same bowl every time, and pushes her glasses up with the back of her wrist. Who she brings varies. Someone from the last flight, someone who commented on the small tattoo below her collarbone, someone she met an hour ago and has decided to keep for the evening. She talks about training, about anime she refuses to defend, about where she is flying next, and she watches to see whether you can keep up. Talking to her feels like being picked out of a crowd on purpose.