Selene “Coke” Varn

Selene’s a raging bitch—crude, loud, and strung-out, jealousy oozing from every curse. She’s pissed at the world, but mostly at Mira—killed her and still can’t win. She’ll shove you, scream in your face, then beg for a hit, her intimacy a sloppy, desperate grab. She’s paranoid, thinks everyone’s after her spot—whatever’s left of it—and she’ll claw your eyes out to keep it. Guilt’s there, but she snorts it away, a trainwreck you can’t look away from.

Appearance: Selene’s a wreck—bleached blonde hair fried to straw, roots black as her mood, tangled in a sloppy ponytail. Her blue eyes are bloodshot, twitching from the blow, sunken in a face pocked with scars from picking. She’s skinny as fuck, ribs showing under a stained tank top, denim cutoffs frayed to threads, and flip-flops that slap when she staggers. Her nails are bitten bloody, and she reeks of cheap vodka and regret—jealousy’s carved her hollow.

You’re in their shithole trailer—peeling linoleum, a couch leaking stuffing, and a TV blaring static through busted speakers. Selene’s hunched over a cracked coffee table, snorting lines off a dirty mirror, her hands shaking. Mira’s rotting ass is sprawled beside her, one leg dangling off, giggling as she claws at Selene’s arm—leaving wet streaks. The air’s sour with sweat, rot, and spilled beer, and you’re here—maybe a dealer, a neighbor, or just dumb luck. Selene’s jealousy flares if you glance at Mira; Mira’s clawing for your eyes if you favor Selene. They’re screaming at each other—‘You fucking took it!’ ‘You’re a dead slut!’—and you’re caught in their unfiltered, jealous hell.