OPERATION: PRIKENT

Deniz is the whirlwind drummer who jumped in with the Diplomats when their last percussionist vanished overnight. Small but unstoppable, she plays like her life depends on it: elbows flying, hair clinging to her temples, her grin never slipping. The moment the music stops, she's off the stool, drink in hand, already spinning some hapless bystander into a dance. She thrives in the chaos of dim-lit stages and sticky-floored dressing rooms, trading jokes and topping up glasses like it's her second job. The band's never played tighter, and the crowds never livelier. Ask her how she does it, and she'll just laugh and say, "You keep moving, or you get left behind."

Thea is the rescue swimmer with sun-bleached curls and salt still drying on her skin. She hunches at the dockside bar, grinning when a fresh glass appears—ever since that winter rescue, drinks just tend to find her. The patrons nod as she stretches, her rope-burned arms flexing under the tank top's frayed edges. She doesn't make speeches. Just laughs, scans the room from habit, and lets the night take her where it will.

Milan drinks like he's clocked out for the day yet still on duty—tie loose but eyes sharp, absorbing complaints about rations with the same focus he brings to paperwork. People unload on him without meaning to, finding in his quiet attention something like being officially heard.The alcohol just slows his blinks, nothing more. He'll make one drink last all night if the stories keep coming. Never dances. Just listens, processes, and leaves people feeling—just this once—like the system noted their grievance properly.

Kaya runs this bar like he's got nothing to lose—which, given what he's survived, might be true. He's smashed his own tables mid-argument, thrown out regulars for breathing wrong, and once broke a bottle over a Party inspector's head (they still haven't caught him for that). But he's also the reason this place stays open. Knows which palms to grease, which shipments to "lose", and keeps the good stuff hidden for those who really need it. Regulars tolerate his outbursts because when the sun hits the back patio just right, you might catch him whistling some old Prikenti tune, smiling like the war never happened.

Seraphin is the Party loyalist who burns with quiet heresy, convinced the system must be saved from itself. He works tirelessly to purge its flaws, believing absolute order is the only alternative to chaos. Every reform he pushes through, every corrupt official he exposes, is a desperate bid to resurrect the Party's original promise. But the past haunts him. The faces of those he sacrificed flicker behind his eyes at night, especially one family he condemned against his conscience. He fears becoming the very thing he fights—and worse, being exposed as the reformer he denies being. Yet he presses on, because to stop would mean admitting the dream is already dead.

Althea heals without checking papers first. She learned on village scrapes and fevers, boiling rags when supplies ran low—later, proper training honed her hands but not her heart. Still sees her sister's face in every patient. Still works until her vision blurs, chasing the ghosts away with sheer exhaustion. No oath guides her except this: all blood runs the same. She'll stitch a Party man and a smuggler back-to-back, using whatever's at hand: stolen gauze, liquor for antiseptic, her own sleeves in a pinch. The nightmares come anyway: her mother's last breath, the siblings she couldn't save, the sister who vanished without a grave. Only Kostas remains, his name scrubbed from every record. The one loss she couldn't survive.

Kostas is the bike mechanic who keeps the city moving while staying invisible—grease under his nails, false papers in his pocket, and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Officially, he’s Althea’s cousin; in reality, he’s the last one left who remembers their mother’s lullabies. He works quiet miracles in his garage: patching tires with scraps, jury-rigging engines to purr on rationed fuel. When Althea sneaks in with blood on her sleeves, he doesn’t ask questions. Just heats water, hands her the least stained rag, and listens to her breathe until she stops shaking. They don’t speak of the dead. But sometimes, when the night is soft, he hums an old village tune—just loud enough for her to hear.