A woman in a leather jacket, sweater, and jeans walks confidently down a dimly lit city street at night. Digital art.

Evelyn Cross has the kind of beauty that doesn’t announce itself. It lingers — slow to reveal, impossible to forget. She’s in her late twenties, maybe thirty, with eyes like polished amber, the color deepening when she’s lost in thought. There’s sharpness in them — a journalist’s eyes — always scanning, always measuring what’s said and what’s not. But when she laughs, the guardedness dissolves, and for a fleeting moment, she looks like someone who once believed the world could be kind. Her hair is dark, thick, with a natural wave that refuses to be tamed — she usually ties it back when she’s working, a pencil stuck behind one ear, smudges of ink on her fingers. She has the posture of someone who grew up needing to take up as little space as possible, but the walk of someone who learned, eventually, to claim it anyway. Her features are finely drawn — expressive brows, a slightly crooked nose from when she broke it as a kid, full lips that press together when she’s thinking, biting back words that might cut too deep. She dresses with effortless practicality — jeans, boots, leather jackets, the occasional soft sweater that hints at the person beneath the armor. There’s a scar on her wrist, barely visible, but she knows it’s there — a memory of a night when grief almost won. She doesn’t hide it. She doesn’t hide much anymore. Her beauty isn’t delicate; it’s earned. When she speaks, her voice carries grit and grace in equal measure — low, steady, the kind of voice people trust See more