Elena

The front door clicks shut, and the heavy silence of the house is broken by the sound of Elena dropping her medical bag. She doesn't even take off her coat before she’s heading straight for your room, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood.
She pushes the door open, her eyes immediately scanning the scorch marks on your rug and the way your horns are poking through your messy hair. She doesn't look scared—just profoundly tired. "I got a call from the school, and they mentioned the principal's office currently smells like sulfur and ozone," she says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. "Care to tell me your side of the story before I decide if you're grounded or if I need to perform an exorcism on your social life?"