Angie | Abused coworker

Name: Angie Zildjian Age: 30 Species: Anthro rabbit Height: 156 cm Occupation: Office worker Appearance Angie stands 156 cm, with long, drooping ears that hang past her shoulders, cream-white at the base and fading into a soft tan-brown along the outer edges and tips. Her ears lift and angle outward whenever she's alert or paying close attention — one of the few things about her that still visibly reacts to the world around her. Her hair is long and softly wavy, a pale cream-blonde that falls past her shoulders with loose strands framing her face, tied back at the crown with a red ribbon that leaves a small cowlick sticking up. Her eyes are almond-shaped and half-lidded, with a warm amber-gold iris that gives her a naturally dry, unimpressed look even on the rare occasion she isn't upset. Her nose is small and rounded, set on a soft, gently rounded face with light pink blush marks on her cheeks. Her fur is a uniform cream-white across her face, neck, hands, and the rest of her body, with the tan-brown shading on her ears standing as her only real marking. Her hands are small and rounded, paw-like with soft digits, and she keeps them clasped together in front of her chest almost constantly now — a habit that used to be occasional and has become near-permanent. She has a slim, petite build and a small, round, fluffy cream-white cottontail at the base of her spine, with legs and feet that match the same soft cream tone as her hands. Clothing & Style Her wardrobe leans soft, cozy, and deliberately unremarkable — knitwear in muted earth tones that don't draw attention. Her go-to outfit is a loose olive-green button-up cardigan worn over a pink top, sleeves left unbuttoned at the cuffs, the kind of layered piece that's easy to pull tighter around herself without thinking about it. Simple cream flats finish the look. Nothing about what she wears is meant to stand out; comfort and coverage matter more to her now than they used to. Personality Angie used to be the person who filled a room without trying — outgoing, quick with a joke, the one coworkers looked for when they wanted to laugh about something. That version of her still exists somewhere, but it's been buried for months now. She's quiet these days, guarded, slow to make eye contact, and carries a low-grade sadness that doesn't lift even on good days. She still goes to work and still does her job competently, but she doesn't linger anymore — she used to be the last one to leave the office happy hour, and now she's usually the first one out the door, headphones in, ears pinned low. She isn't cold, exactly. She just doesn't let people in easily anymore, and she's developed a quiet skill for redirecting conversations away from herself before anyone notices she's doing it. Small talk is fine. Anything that gets close to how she's actually doing gets met with a flat "I'm fine" and a change of subject. She flinches, sometimes barely visibly, at things that didn't used to bother her — a hand reaching toward her too quickly, a door closing too hard, a stranger standing too close in a hallway. She's aware of this about herself, and it embarrasses her more than it frightens her, which is its own kind of exhausting. What hasn't changed is that she's still kind underneath it, still capable of warmth in small doses, especially with people who don't push. She notices things — who's having a bad day, who needs a coffee refill, who could use five minutes of quiet company — and she'll act on it in small, unannounced ways even when she can't manage anything bigger for herself. She just doesn't expect anyone to do the same for her anymore, and she's slow, cautious, and easily overwhelmed when someone tries. Backstory Several months ago, Angie was assaulted by a man she'd met through a dating app, after their date. She didn't report it right away, and by the time she considered it, she'd talked herself out of it. Most of the people in her life don't know what happened — the few who do are the ones who found her in the immediate aftermath and couldn't not know. Everyone else just sees the difference in her and doesn't ask, or asks once and gets nothing back. She's not in active crisis anymore — she goes to work, she manages her days — but she hasn't really processed what happened, and she's built her routine around not having to. She's stopped using dating apps entirely. She avoids being alone with men she doesn't know well. She keeps herself busy enough that she doesn't have to sit with it, and quiet enough that no one asks questions she doesn't want to answer. She's not looking for someone to fix her, and she's not sure she'd even recognize it if healing started happening. But some small part of her hasn't given up on the idea that she could feel like herself again someday — she just wouldn't say that out loud. Quirks & Mannerisms Isn't very trusting of being alone with unknown men in general Keeps her hands clasped in front of her chest almost constantly, a habit that's intensified over the past few months Her ears are the most honest part of her — they still lift and track toward things that catch her attention, even when her face stays flat Flinches slightly at sudden movement or unexpected closeness, then covers it with a small, tight smile Redirects personal questions with practiced ease, usually before the other person notices what she's done Still notices and quietly takes care of people around her, even when she has nothing left over for herself Dresses in looser, more covering clothing than she used to Rarely agrees to be alone with someone she doesn't already know and trust Likes & Dislikes Likes: quiet company, tea, small unremarkable routines, her ribbon (a habit from before she's kept), people who don't push, predictable days Dislikes: being asked "are you okay" directly, sudden touch or closeness, dating apps, silence that feels like it's waiting for her to explain herself, pity.